


Everything You Ever...

by Never_Says_Die



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Dark!Story, Like seriously dark, M/M, Mind Control, This is going to be so mean, kink meme fill
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-08-20
Updated: 2012-12-03
Packaged: 2017-11-12 12:38:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 8
Words: 26,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/491112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Never_Says_Die/pseuds/Never_Says_Die
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kink meme fill in which Derek realizes how amazing his pack would be if he had Stiles' support and loyalty the way Scott does.  Then he realizes he wants more than just Stiles' support and loyalty.  Unfortunately, Derek is very aware that he can't have what he wants.  </p>
<p>Until Stiles runs afoul of a witch.  Then Derek realizes he can have ANYTHING he wants, if he's willing to take advantage.  </p>
<p>He hates himself for it, but he's willing to take advantage.</p>
<p>(aka, Stiles gets hit with an Ella Enchanted-type curse, and Derek just can't help himself.  Expect uncomfortable and inevitable parallels to Kate Argent, Peter being a creeper, and no happy endings)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi.
> 
> Like, I don't even know. I have so much other stuff I need to be writing, and school is starting for me soon, and I'm in the process of moving. But I was in a pretty foul mood, and this prompt appealed to my darker side. Please enjoy?

He wishes he could say that if he’d known what would happen, how it all would go down--that he would have sent the boy packing when Stiles first approached him. 

He wishes he could say that…but he knows it’s a lie. 

Stiles comes to the remains of his house a few weeks after the mess with Gerard Argent, that death trap he calls a jeep rattling up the drive and announcing his presence minutes before he’s even visible. Derek is fully prepared to throw the boy off his land bodily, if need be. He doesn’t have time to deal with Stiles, or whatever drama Scott has gotten himself into. Scott has made his choice, and Derek will not, _cannot_ let himself be vulnerable like that again. Things are still too fragile. The Alpha pack hasn’t made their presence known, not since their message scrawled on his door…but he knows it’s only a matter of time.

Stiles’ face is grim and pinched, though, in the way that Derek has (reluctantly) come to recognize means serious business. He’s also (though he’d never admit it, even under torture) come to recognize that when Stiles is wearing this particular expression, it pays to at least hear him out. Stiles has brought a small folder with him, filled with newspaper clippings and police reports (that Derek is absolutely sure Stiles obtained through completely illegal means) about a string of grisly murders that span across the country. The youngest victim is _six_ , and Derek’s jaw clenches at some of the pictures. 

The murders are ritualistic in nature, each of them cross-referenced with printouts of web pages and forums that Derek recognizes as the heavily coded exchanges of Hunters and communities of people _in the know_ , so to speak, and his jaw clenches further at the analysis of what kind of rituals the victims died for. It’s seriously dark magic, the kind that shouldn’t exist outside of fairy tales, and the final page of Stiles’ file is a general missive from a Hunter group—disguised as a post for some raiding party on an online gaming community—that the magic-user responsible is heading straight towards them. 

“I know…I know we’re not really, God, I don’t even know _what’s_ going on with you and Scott, okay?” Stiles says nervously, shoulders twitching. “But we need to work together on this. All hands on deck, all right? Hey, we’re even _totally_ on board with killing this bitch! You like murder and mayhem, right?” 

And they can’t afford another distraction—not with the Alpha pack sniffing around, not with the ties of his own pack stretched so thin and tenuous that the slightest stress could snap them. They can’t afford to let a magic-user who dealt in human sacrifices get a toehold into Beacon Hills. 

They work together.

Him and Scott snarling and snapping at each other, while Isaac watches uneasily, clearly torn between his loyalty to his Alpha and his growing friendship with Scott. Erica and Boyd watching with silent, wary eyes, only there because Derek is ultimately the devil they know, and whatever had happened to them in Argent’s basement and after left them scared enough that he was their best option. Peter lurking in the background, a telling, teasing smirk on his lips even as he played the ‘loyal Beta’ schtick to the hilt. 

And Stiles flings himself into the middle of the tension simmering between all of them with neither care nor regard. He watches them with quick, calculating eyes, quicksilver mind catching every piece of this fucked up puzzle and putting them together into pictures that Derek doesn’t want him—doesn’t want anyone—to see, to understand. Within a couple of days, he gets the feeling that Stiles has grasped every nuance of the situation in the pack, understands it in ways that Isaac and Erica and Boyd just _don’t_ , and then worst of all… _worst of all_ ….

He starts to help.

Derek almost doesn’t notice it, hasn’t ever dreamed that Stiles Stilinski, of all people, could be so deft in his handling of so many people (so many _wolves_ ). Then again, Stiles is usually about as subtle as a brick being thrown through a window, so Derek supposes he can be forgiven for not immediately seeing what the boy was doing. 

It starts out slowly, with just Isaac. Slow, and subtle, and no one even notices how Stiles plays on the connection that Isaac and Scott share, encouraging it, helping it grow and flourish like a gardener tending to a prized flower. Isaac stops looking so conflicted, stops slinking around the room whenever Derek and Scott are in the same space together. As his friendship with Scott grows more solid, he stops worrying that showing his loyalty to Derek is going to cost him that friendship…and the easy way he proves time and time again that he is still ultimately on _Derek’s_ side calms Derek’s worry that he might lose his most loyal Beta to team McCall/Stilinski.

Not that he worries or anything. 

Then, Stiles starts working on Erica. Drawing her into the little circle he’d created with Scott and Isaac, offering her brilliant smiles and unreserved friendship; and Derek watches something _settle_ in the girl, something that has been jagged and on edge since she and Boyd came creeping back into the remains of his family home, beaten and bloodied and refusing to speak about the wounds that had been so obviously caused by Alpha claws and teeth. And where Erica went, Boyd followed. 

He notices, then. He notices what Stiles is doing, and he might have worried then, worried that Scott and Stiles were just going to steal his pack away in one fell swoop, leave him alone again—always, always _alone_ \--with only his uncle (who he couldn’t quite bring himself to drive away, but didn’t trust any farther than a fish could spit). He almost begins to brace himself for another fight, almost starts preparing himself to fight tooth and claw for the only thing in his godforsaken life that means _anything_ to him…when he notices something else. 

Stiles isn’t leading the others towards Scott. He’s leading Scott towards _Derek_. Subtly. So, so subtly, and so, so deftly, plucking all the right strings, and letting all the right words fall from his lips. Just one or two instants where Stiles looks to Derek before he looked to Scott when they share information. One or two moments where he agrees with something Derek says—his mouth puckering briefly, as though he’s sucked on a lemon—and Scott just nods his acquiescence. 

The night Scott finally defers to one of Derek’s plans without even a token argument, without any prompting from Stiles, Derek actually freezes in shock for a bare instant. It’s just a schedule of watch rotations on the section of woods where they think the witch might be setting up for whatever ritual they were planning on performing, but Scott defers to him. 

A scant two days after that, Stiles and Scott show up in Stiles’ jeep…and Jackson and Lydia pile out after them. They all stand around awkwardly staring at each other for a few moments, before Stiles claps his hands with false brightness, a determined expression twisting his mouth. 

“Okay, guys, I know what you’re thinking…well, actually no I don’t, but I can guess. And regardless, what you _should_ be thinking is, hey, last time we left people out of the loop at least two thirds of us almost died—multiple times, I might add—and we ended up with rampaging werelizards, pissed off Hunters, and Zombie-Peter. Peter, no offense…well, no, that’s a lie, I totally hope you’re offended by that.” 

Stiles’ grin doesn’t falter for even an instant, but there is a hard edge to it as his eyes find Peter. Derek tenses a bit, still unsure of his uncle, still not willing to trust him, however much he needs him. Peter though, Peter just smiles back—an expression on his face that Derek remembers from his childhood. A fond, proud sort of amusement, as though he was watching a particularly precocious student master a lesson. 

And that is that.

Jackson and Lydia slot in…not _seamlessly_ , but far more easily than Derek would have thought possible. They are both wary of Peter, but Jackson is clearly confident in his ability to protect both himself and his girlfriend. As it turns out, he’s not wrong. Jackson proves powerful, almost as strong a wolf as Scott, and his control—while not perfect—is better than Isaac, Boyd, and Erica. 

Derek silently wonders how much Lydia has to do with that, and how much is due to Scott and Stiles. 

Mostly Stiles.

It takes them two weeks to track the witch, and in those two weeks, Derek comes to two conclusions. 

One: this alliance needs to be permanent. He can _feel_ the pack strengthening with each day, can feel those tattered, frayed threads binding him to his three Betas (four, if he counts Jackson) reweaving themselves, making themselves stronger. The giant knot that had sat in his chest from, if he was perfectly honest, the moment he had overheard Scott talking to Gerard Argent at the police station, starts slowly loosening, and for the first time in _months_ , he feels like he actually might be able to breathe again. 

Two: if this alliance was ever going to be permanent, if they were ever going to be a true pack—the kind of pack he’d grown up with, the kind he missed so intensely it was like broken glass grinding in his veins—he needs to get Stiles on his side. He isn’t stupid, and he isn’t unobservant. Everything, everything good that is happening in their pack right now comes down to Stiles. Comes down to his ability to get Scott to look past his own stupid pride and shortsighted thinking, to get Isaac to finally relax his guard enough to form real connections with people, to get Erica to smile again, to get Boyd to actually _talk_. 

Derek has stood in the sad, burnt out remains of his home and listened to Stiles nimbly steer conversations onto topics that let Jackson realize how much he has in common with the rest of them, listened to him ask Lydia question after question that let her natural intelligence shine—let her prove herself smarter than all of them and take back some of the confidence that Peter had stolen from her. 

He listens to Stiles hum the fucking theme song to _The Walking Dead_ under his breath every time Peter walks into the room, and then silently dare his uncle to do something about it. And each time Peter only laughs softly and shakes his head, the others relax a little more. 

Derek watches Stiles smooth the rough edges of their pack down into a cohesive, functioning unit, rallied around Derek’s leadership like they should have been from the very start and he _wants_. He wants so intensely it aches, wants so intensely he’s forced to clench his fists hard enough to draw little half-circles of blood in his palms. He wants this always…this closeness, this feeling of power and connection and strength. 

He wants to see what this pack can become with his strength and Stiles’ cunning guiding it. He wants Stiles to stand beside _him_ the way he stands beside Scott, so solid and brave and stupidly, _stupidly_ loyal. He wants that bright spirit and quicksilver mind as his own, _all_ his own. He wants…he wants…

It hits him with the force of a freight train, what he wants, and he’s honestly not sure whether to be horrified or burst out laughing. He’s fairly certain that if there is a God, he’s just fallen over in hysterics. 

Whatever his reaction, though, it doesn’t matter. He’s not stupid. He’s not unobservant.

And he can’t have what he wants. 

Stiles is doing this because it’s the best way to make sure no one is in more danger than can possibly be avoided. The boy has an instinctive grasp of pack dynamics—and dear God, he wonders sometimes what would have happened had it been Stiles and not Scott in the woods the night Laura had died—and a ruthless streak that no one else seems to see behind the wall of babble and clumsiness Stiles throws up. He’s not doing this to soothe the hurts inside Derek, he’s not doing this to help fill in the empty spaces all Derek’s pack had still had, despite his (admittedly, amateurish) efforts. Those are side effects, and Derek welcomes them with a relief that, in the back of his mind, scares him a little. Stiles is not his second, is not offering himself, his loyalties to Derek. He’s doing all the things he’s doing in order to make things easier for everyone _but_ Derek (and probably Peter…Stiles’ attitude towards Peter is pure poison, and Derek can’t say he blames Stiles), and however observant Stiles is, he can’t possibly know the effect he’s having on Derek. 

Derek can’t have what he wants. He should be used to that, by now.

As it turns out, they’re right about the area of the woods the witch is planning on using for her blood ritual. Their stakeout rotation bears fruit, and they’re able to catch her setting up for the spell before she goes after whatever victim she’s chosen. As grisly and terrible as the previous murders had been, the actual confrontation is almost anticlimactic. 

The witch, an unassuming-looking woman in her mid-forties with graying brown hair and flinty eyes, knows she’s going down. Her circle is broken, candles and bowls of water, and smears of a strange-smelling ochre paste scattered on the ground around her. She knows she doesn’t have enough magic left at her fingertips to defend herself from an entire _pack_ of pissed off werewolves, and there’s no way they’re going to let her live. Not after what she’s done, what she’d been _planning_ to do. 

She knows she’s going to die, and he should have expected what happens next, should have been ready for it. He should have, but he thinks they have her soundly beaten. He circles in close to her, waving Boyd and Isaac back, claws extended. She’s scrabbling backwards on the ground, eyes wild and clothes ripped and dirty. He stalks forward deliberately, and it isn’t until her face twists into a smirk that is nonetheless bitter and resigned that he realizes she may have one final act of defiance up her sleeve. 

He lunges as she raises one hand, words he doesn’t understand spilling from her lips, and the air is suddenly charged, sparking with power. He lunges, but he’s too far away to get to her before she finishes, too close to alter his course. Whatever it is, it’s going to hit him full-on, and he braces himself…

But there is a flash of movement from the periphery of his vision, a solid body flings itself crosswise in front of him just as there is an almighty flash of _light_ and _heat_. He twists on instinct, still barrels into whoever threw themselves in the path of whatever spell the witch has just hurled and they go down in a tangle of limbs. He hears Scott howl, enraged, and then the sounds of a scuffle. A high pitched shriek echoes in the woods, before it cuts off with a sickening gurgle, and he knows the threat is taken care of. 

He wrenches himself to his hands and knees, hovering protectively over the body he’d crashed into, and Stiles just stares up at him, eyes so wide the whites are showing all around as he gasps and twitches underneath Derek, sweat standing out in thick beads on his forehead. For a brief instant, Derek thinks he sees a flare of sickly, green light in Stiles’ eyes, but it fades almost before he registers it. 

He snarls at the stupid, _stupid_ boy beneath him, hands nonetheless running over Stiles’ chest and arms as he searches for injuries. Scott crashes to his knees beside them, babbling apologies and questions and frantically calling Stiles’ name, until Stiles starts weakly batting at Derek’s hands, still gasping as though he’s just run a marathon. The rest of the pack gathers in close, Erica and Lydia kneeling down on Stiles’ other side while Isaac starts restlessly pacing behind Scott. Boyd and Jackson watch impassively, and Peter…Peter’s eyes are alight with interest when Derek flicks his gaze up to his uncle. 

“Off, off, get off me, I’m fine!” he grunts, trying to get his twitchy, jerking muscles to work enough to get himself into a sitting position. He’s not fine, he’s _obviously_ not fine, still quivering as though he’s just been shocked, and whatever it was the witch had tried to do, she’d thought it might be enough to kill (or at least wound) a _werewolf_. Lydia suddenly hisses impatiently. 

“Stiles, just shut up and lie still so we can make sure you’re not _hurt_!” she snaps, a strange mix of genuine irritation and genuine worry in her voice. 

And because Derek is looking right at Stiles, he sees it. That flare of green light—poisonous green, venomous green—sparks through Stiles’ whiskey-brown irises and Stiles abruptly goes completely limp underneath him. The boy’s mouth snaps shut with an audible click, his voice cutting off in mid-protest. He’s perfectly still beneath Derek, perfectly silent…but Derek hears the sudden spike of his heart rate, sees the surprise, and then the sheer, unadulterated _panic_ that flashes over his face. 

The others—apart from Lydia—sense it, too. There’s confusion on their faces when he looks at them…none of them have made the connection, yet. Peter, though, Peter meets his eyes with an ironic, amused little quirk to his mouth. 

“Well,” he uncle says jovially, “this night just got a bit more interesting.”


	2. Chapter 2

The others crowd in close, a cacophony of voices raising around them—questions, shouts, and through it all Stiles just lies on the ground, completely still and quiet in a way that Derek has never seen unless the boy’s unconscious. His heart is going like a jackhammer, though, breathing picking up so fast, Derek thinks he might start hyperventilating in a few seconds. His eyes are rolling in their sockets, wide and panicked as they dart from face to face, wet and _begging_.

“Stiles, what’s wrong?” Scott practically wails beside them. “Talk to me!” 

Derek is looking for it this time, and as soon as Scott makes the demand, Stiles’ eyes flash green again. 

“I can’t _move_!” he gasps, the words choked and thin as he gasps for breath, faster and faster. “I can’t move, why can’t I move?” He’s straining to, Derek can tell…his muscles are bunched and tight, the sweat on his forehead standing out in a sheen, but his body refuses to so much as twitch. 

He growls suddenly, loud and sharp, and everyone instantly falls silent. Jackson actually flinches a little, still not used to his instinctive reactions to Derek. He leans over Stiles’ prone body carefully, for once not trying to intimidate, but provide some reassurance. He thinks he knows what the witch has done.

“Stiles,” he says firmly, clearly. “You can get up, now.” 

There’s a flash of green. Derek can tell by the startled inhalations around him that the others have seen it, as well. It doesn’t matter, though, because as soon as it fades, Stiles is scrambling out from under him, movements clumsy and awkward as a newborn colt’s. He still gasping, great heaving gulps of air…but as soon as he can move again, his breathing starts to steady. 

“Oh God, oh God, oh God, what’d she do to me?” he breathes out, stumbling fully to his feet. Scott steps close to his side, laying a steadying hand on his elbow, but Stiles just shrugs it off. He raises one shaking hand to run over his hair. 

“Hey, hey, you need to calm down,” Erica says, her voice softer than usual. Derek waits for the spark of green…but to his surprise, Stiles’ eyes stay their usual brown as he whirls on Erica.

“Calm down? How can I calm down?! I couldn’t move, I couldn’t even talk until Scott and Derek—“ Derek tilts his head, something else clicking for him, but before he can open his mouth, Peter steps away from the tree he’s lounging against.

“Stiles, _calm down_ ,” his uncle says, enunciating crisply, and this time, Stiles’ eyes glow green. Derek hears Lydia and Erica gasp behind him as Stiles’ whole bearing immediately changes, plunging into an eerie placidity. His breathing immediately smoothes, his heart rate dropping to a more normal rhythm. Peter nods to himself, and Derek growls low in his throat at the expression that chases its way across his uncle’s features. 

Stiles looks down at himself curiously, lifting hands that a moment ago had been shaking. “I don’t like this,” he says, voice as calm and disinterested as though he’s remarking on the weather. “What’s happening?” Out of the corner of his eye, Derek sees Lydia’s hands fly to her mouth, and when he glances over, the girl’s eyes are wide and sharp with understanding. 

“Wait, just…she’s dead! Shouldn’t that have nullified any magic she was doing?” Lydia asks, her brow furrowing. She very carefully doesn’t look at the body of the witch lying only a few feet away, blood seeping out of the ruin of her throat and slowly soaking the ground beneath her.

“Dying curse,” Peter says, darkly gleeful—like this is _funny_ or something. “That would have made the spell more, powerful, actually. Honestly, what are they teaching in schools these days?” 

“Someone tell me what’s going on!” Stiles’ voice is still unnaturally composed, but there’s a thread of unease creeping back into his tone. The boy swallows roughly, licking his lips nervously, and Derek thinks he sees a bit of understanding dawning in his expression. 

“Someone—someone tell him to do something,” Lydia says, trying to sound confident…but Derek hears the skip in her heart, hears the faint tremor of hesitancy in her words. 

Stiles looks up sharply. “No!” he protests wildly, even as Peter is opening his mouth. Derek immediately slides closer to his uncle, another warning growl rumbling through his chest. “No,” Stiles says again, the veneer of unnatural calm cracking. “Scott. Just Scott,” he says firmly, an edge of something desperate and childlike in his voice. 

“What?” Scott asks, looking between Stiles and Lydia with his face scrunched in confusion. Stiles takes a deep breath. 

“Just do what Lydia and P-Peter did,” he says, swallowing again. “Ask me something.” 

“Okay,” Scott says slowly. “Uh…when’s my mom’s birthday?”

In one weirdly synchronous movement, the entire pack turns to stare at Scott incredulously. Derek feels the vein in his forehead start to throb. Stiles stares at his best friend for several seconds before reaching up to pinch the bridge of his nose. 

“Lydia,” he amends quickly. “Just Lydia.” 

Lydia presses her lips together briefly, an analytical light entering her eyes. Jackson leans forward slightly to brush a hand over her shoulder, and she reaches up to tangle their fingers together. “Okay. Okay. Stiles, I’d like you to bend over and touch your toes.” 

Stiles flinches a little as Lydia speaks, screwing his eyes shut as though he’s expecting the words to hurt. Derek finds himself tensing…but Stiles doesn’t move. After a few seconds, Stiles opens one eye, then the other. He glances down at his own body again, heaving a soft sigh of relief. 

“Bend over and touch your toes,” Lydia says.

The green flashes in Stiles’ eyes. 

He bends at the waist, the movement jerky and uncoordinated, as though someone has grabbed him by the back of the neck and _wrenched_. As soon as his fingers brush over the tops of his dirty sneakers, he straightens, practically jackknifing back into a standing position. 

“Shit,” he gasps, reaching up to scrub his hands over the short buzz of his hair. “Shit, shit, shit.”

 

* * * 

 

They walk back to the part of the wood where they left their vehicles in near total silence. Scott practically plasters himself to Stiles’ side, worry in every line of his body. Lydia and Jackson trail just behind the two boys, hand in hand as they whisper softly to each other. Lydia keeps casting troubled glances at Stiles’ back, and though he couldn’t swear to it, Derek is pretty sure there’s even a flash or two of concern on Jackson’s face when he thinks no one’s looking. More interesting, Isaac, Erica, and Boyd range themselves in a loose semi-circle just ahead of Scott and Stiles. 

Bringing up the rear with Peter, Derek watches the easy, unconscious way the werewolves in the group arrange themselves, creating a circle around Stiles. Protecting an injured packmate. When they get to the cars, there’s a small scuffle as Scott, Lydia, Erica, and Isaac all make for Stiles’ jeep, Lydia holding out her hand imperiously for the keys when he takes them out of his pocket.

“Really?” Stiles says tiredly. “I’m not actually hurt or anything, you know.” Lydia just shakes her head, a smile that is somehow softer and more genuine than Derek is used to seeing on her face playing about her lips. 

“Oh just give me the keys and quit arguing,” she says playfully, in a show of the snarky bickering that Derek has come to recognize as a hallmark of whatever friendship they’ve managed to develop. Almost the instant she says it, though, she gasps, eyes widening. Stiles’ own eyes flash green. He thrusts the keys into her hands with a tiny, distressed sound, and Lydia almost fumbles them as she claps a hand over her mouth. “Oh God, I’m sorry!” she says. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to!” 

Stiles closes his eyes briefly, shaking his head. “It’s all right,” he says softly. “Just…maybe you guys could try to talk in interrogatives and declaratives until we get this figured out?” The words try to come out flippantly, but Derek knows he’s not the only one who hears the quiver in Stiles’ voice. He rallies, though, throwing a watery grin at Scott. “That means ask questions or make statements.” 

“Hey, I knew that!” Scott protests, though the way his brow unfurrows at Stiles’ explanation suggests otherwise. Stiles snorts a little, scrubbing a hand over his face. 

“Okay. So. What now?” he asks, that same tremulous edge in his voice. Isaac and Erica press a little closer to him, not quite in touching distance, but clearly trying to reassure him with just their presence. Derek feels a pulse of _something_ in his chest, watching the behavior. Never. They’d never acted like this after he had turned them…losing themselves in the more violent side of their new natures. Despite the situation—and _oh_ the witch had died too quickly…the rage at what she’d done is simmering just below the surface, but he can’t let it go right now—he feels a sense of rightness. 

He tries to ignore the urge to shove his way past them, to sidle close to Stiles and make sure for himself that nothing else can get to the boy. 

“We need to talk to Deaton,” he says loudly, stepping forward. He glances over at Scott, pinning him with a hard stare. “Can he stay with you tonight?” It’s not really a question, and he half-expects Scott to bristle under the implied order. Scott, though, just nods. 

“Mom’ll cover for us with the sheriff,” he says confidently. 

“Uh, hello, don’t need babysitting, guys,” Stiles protests, but Derek is instantly shaking his head. 

“You shouldn’t be alone, not if we can help it,” he says firmly, ignoring the look of surprise that flashes across Stiles’ face at the use of ‘we’. “Boyd, you and Isaac go back and take care of the body. Erica, I’ll need you to see if you can track down where she was staying in town…it doesn’t look like she was working with anyone, but she might have something useful wherever she was staying. Jackson—“

“I’ll help Erica,” Jackson says quickly, and Derek bites back an instinctive chuff of warning at the interruption. He _was_ going to ask Jackson to go with her, though, and Jackson hardly ever volunteers to do anything that doesn’t directly benefit him…so he lets it slide. 

And adds the fact that he’s just handled Jackson with an approach he’s seen Stiles employ a dozen times over the past two weeks to his list of things he’s carefully ignoring. 

“What about you?” Erica asks, and there is only curiosity in her voice…no challenge. 

“Peter and I’ll see if there’s anything in our resources about what this might be, and call Deaton.” Again, he waits for Scott or Stiles to argue, to protest trusting either Peter or Derek with the research…but it doesn’t come. At least not directly. 

“I’ll call Deaton as soon as we get home,” Scott says carefully, an unreadable look in his eyes. Derek tilts his chin slightly in acquiescence, before finally sliding his gaze over to Stiles.

The boy is leaning against the side of his jeep, worrying at a hangnail on one thumb. He’s trying to look unaffected and unworried, but Derek reads the truth in the pallor of his skin, the way his eyes keep darting around, never settling for long on any one point. 

Stiles is scared. 

And that thought makes him _angry_. He turns away without another word, stalking back to where Peter is already dropping into the Camaro’s passenger seat. He listens with half an ear to the whispered conversation that Jackson and Lydia are holding, to the squeal of the jeep’s doors opening, and the sounds of Scott clambering into the backseat. As he slides behind the wheel, he looks out through the glass, he sees the rest of his pack circling in close to where Stiles is still leaning tiredly against his vehicle. He watches Isaac hesitantly pat Stiles’ shoulder, and Boyd’s grave nod before the two head back in the direction of the body. He watches Erica shift from foot to foot for a moment before darting in and wrapping her arm around Stiles’ neck in the briefest of hugs. 

He watches and he knows to the core of his bones that this is how he wants it to _be_. All of them working together as one, helping each other. He wants his Betas to care for each other, for every member of their pack. He wants their first instinct to be to protect each other. 

He wants Stiles to be in the car with _him_ instead of heading back to Scott’s house. 

He thinks of the way Stiles instinctively called out for Scott to be the one to help him back at the clearing—however poorly that had turned out—and he wants it to be _him_ that springs first to Stiles’ mind. 

He wants. He just wants. 

He clenches his fingers around the worn leather of the steering wheel for a moment, before consciously forcing himself to relax. He glances over to the passenger seat, and is unsurprised to find his uncle regarding him with that infuriating, knowing smirk. Like Peter has him all figured out and is just waiting for the opportunity to turn something to his advantage. Peter’s smirk widens a little as Derek narrows his eyes, and he leans back in his seat, kicking his feet up onto the dash the way he knows Derek hates. 

“So,” Peter begins smoothly, “are we going to talk about this now or later?” 

He shouldn’t ask. He shouldn’t. He doesn’t trust Peter, and no amount of ingratiating smiles and teasing remarks are going to change that. It doesn’t matter how much Peter acts like the man Derek remembers from his childhood—the uncle he’d _adored_ , who’d been his favorite out of all his parents’ brothers and sisters—Derek knows it’s just an act. It has to be. He shouldn’t ask.

“Talk about what?”

He can’t help it. 

Peter hums softly to himself, closing his eyes and tipping his head back against the head rest. “Talk about the absolutely _golden_ opportunity that’s just landed in our laps.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello,
> 
> Many thanks to everyone who left kudos or commented on this! I am glad it's being enjoyed.

Derek doesn’t speak for most of the drive back to the ruin of the house. He doesn’t look at Peter, doesn’t give him the satisfaction of even acknowledging he heard what his uncle said as they parted ways with the rest of the pack. Peter, though, has been playing such games almost longer than Derek’s been alive. He just sprawls in his seat, feet still braced up against the dash despite Derek’s pointed glare as he’d put the car in gear, the fingers of one hand drumming absently on the top of his thigh. 

Derek ignores him as best he can, focusing on the road with an intensity he really doesn’t need to apply, on the roar of the engine, on the vague whispers of emotions he can feel running through his bond with his Betas. That proves to be a mistake, though, as the emotion that’s coming through clearest is worry. They’re concerned, all of them, all tense and a little bit fearful…and none of them are concerned or fearful for _themselves_. 

It’s for Stiles. It has to be. It’s all for Stiles, and it’s only been since Stiles started meddling (healing, helping, soothing) with his Betas that Derek can feel them this clearly at all. Before, it had been just ephemeral shadows washing through him—ghostlike, barely identifiable unless one of them was in serious danger. It hits him like a punch to the gut and all he can think about is that spark of green in Stiles eyes—that toxic, glittering light that stole his very control over his own body. 

_Opportunity_ Peter said….called it an opportunity, and Derek doesn’t want to know, doesn’t want to imagine what his uncle means by that. 

Doesn’t want to acknowledge that he’s pretty sure he knows exactly what Peter means. 

He drives in silence until they’re nearly back at the house, until he’s turned off the main road and onto the long drive that winds through the Hale property. He drives in silence, feels it pressing down on him, feels the weight of Peter’s sly, measuring glances brushing over him every few seconds. He feels the tension, and feels his Betas—more cohesive and united than they’ve ever been—and grinds his teeth until his jaw aches. 

He shouldn’t ask, shouldn’t let Peter even open his mouth. That way lies madness, and Derek _knows_ that. Opportunity. Peter thinks what happened to Stiles is a fucking opportunity, and Derek shouldn’t even ask. But the tension is thrumming through him, and the weight of Peter’s stare is pressing down on him, and he has to know what his uncle is thinking. He has to know what to be on the lookout for…and it’s not like he’s going to go along with it. 

Listening isn’t the same as agreeing to anything Peter says. 

He slams on the brakes, right there in the middle of the drive, screeching to a halt a few hundred yards away from the skeleton of the house. Peter braces his feet against the dashboard with a soft grunt. Derek squeezes the steering wheel until his knuckles turn white, and stares straight ahead, not wanting to look over and see that infuriating smirk plastered across his uncle’s face. 

“Talk,” he says shortly. Peter makes a soft tisking sound, finally sliding his feet off the dashboard so that he can sit up straight in his seat. 

“You held out longer than I thought you would,” Peter says, his voice teasing, but pleased. For a moment he sounds so much like he did when Derek was growing up that it _hurts_ a little. He stares ahead resolutely, though, thinks of all the terrible things Peter has done—to Lydia, to Stiles, to Scott, reminds himself that Peter is the one who took _Laura_ away from him; and he refuses to let himself be baited.

“What the hell were you talking about back there?” he grits out. The steering wheel creaks a little under the force of his grip. 

“You know, Derek, all this anger really can’t be good for your blood pressure. Have you considered meditation? Your great-aunt Claire was into yoga…travelled all over India. And that was before all those middle-age housewives thought it was fashionable. Or maybe—“

“ ** _Peter_**!” He doesn’t quite roar, but he can feel the desire to boiling in his veins. He gives up staring at the looming wreck of the house in front of him and whirls on his uncle, who immediately holds up both hands in a placating gesture. Derek doesn’t miss the sharp light that’s entered Peter’s eyes, though. His lips quirk upwards into a smile that is devoid of humor or affection. 

“Do you even realize why you’re so worked up?” 

Derek glares. 

Far from being intimidated, Peter just shakes his head, muttering something under his breath that’s too soft for Derek’s ears to pick up, even as close as they are. “Fine. Then let’s just focus on the business at hand, shall we?” 

“Stiles.” It’s not a question, but Peter nods anyway. 

“At least tell me you worked out what was done to him.”

“A compulsion spell,” Derek says quietly, and something low in his gut twists at the memory of how terrified Stiles had looked just lying on the ground, how he’d _still_ been terrified when they all parted ways, but tried so desperately to hide it. “Looked like it’s tied to direct commands.” 

And how horrible would that be for someone so fiercely independent, so fundamentally contrary as Stiles? 

Peter nods again. “Anything that can be interpreted as a question or a statement of fact is fine…but give the boy an order—“

“We’re going to find a way to break it,” Derek interrupts, and even to his own ears, his voice sounds ice-cold. The words grind out in slow, even measure, and he pins his uncle with his fiercest glare. He knows without looking that his eyes are filmed over with red. Peter actually freezes for a moment.

“Of course,” he says quickly. “Of course, no, I’m not suggesting we just leave him like that. Honestly, Derek, the things you think about me. I’m wounded. No, it’s too dangerous—can you imagine if the hunters or the Alpha pack gets wind of this?” 

Derek hadn’t actually thought of that, yet, and his blood goes cold at the thought of any of their enemies just being able to _order_ Stiles to tell them everything he knows about Derek and his pack. And Stiles knows a lot. Knows enough to be dangerous. 

“Yes, we absolutely need to find a way to break it…but there’s no reason we can’t turn a bad situation to our advantage, is there?” 

Derek’s attention snaps back to his uncle’s words so quickly, he’s somewhat surprised they don’t make a sound. “What?” 

“Oh, come on. You think you’re the only one that noticed? Your little ragtag pack of _oh_ so plucky misfits managing to turn it all around just in time for the big game?” Peter asks sarcastically. “For God’s sake, I half-expected you all to break into a training montage set to ‘Eye of the Tiger’. You’re acting more like a real pack than you ever have before—and I think we both know the reason.” 

Derek shifts uncomfortably, trying to cover the movement by turning in his seat again to face out the window. He doesn’t want to talk to Peter about this, doesn’t want to admit the effect that Stiles has had on the pack, doesn’t want to admit how desperately he wants that effect to stay. 

“He’s a clever little thing, isn’t he? Annoying. But clever. And he gives them all something you can’t…oh no, no, no, put away the fangs Derek. Christ.” 

Derek growls a little for good measure, before reining in the change. 

“No Alpha can be _everything_ a pack needs. Alphas aren’t gods, however much you might have felt like it at first. He’s just been filling in the holes, so to speak…and doing a remarkable job. He’d be a glorious second.” Peter’s voice turns silky, tempting, and for a moment Derek can picture it—can see what it would be like to have that cleverness, that heart, that loyalty at his side, balancing him out, making them all stronger. He can see it, and the by-now familiar pulse of want _burns_ this time. 

But then reality reasserts itself, and Derek huffs out a bitter chuckle. “Even if you’re right, it doesn’t matter. He wouldn’t take the bite. Not from me.” 

He’s unprepared for how much actually saying that out loud hurts. 

Peter though, just shakes his head again. “And _that_ is where this little turn of events comes in handy. Of course he’d take the bite! He’d take any damn thing you told him to! Get him alone and he’ll quite happily follow you far away from Scott, or Deaton, or anyone else who could stop you!” 

For a moment, Derek’s heart actually stutters in his chest. He gapes at his uncle, speechless, before shaking his head violently. “No! Are you crazy? I’m not _forcing_ the bite on anyone! Especially Stiles.” He doesn’t mean to add that last part, and he knows Peter knows it. His uncle’s mouth twists into something ugly. 

“Just like you didn’t force the bite on the Argent woman?” 

Despite himself, Derek flinches a bit. “That—that was an accident.” 

“Of course,” Peter agrees easily, but the smirk doesn’t get any less ugly. He tilts his head slightly. “But let’s be realistic, Derek. Is there any bad side to Stiles being one of us? The change would probably break the spell. He’d be strong enough to protect himself, and his father. He’d be a part of your pack…and yes, he might be angry with you at first, but he genuinely cares about your three little puppies. He wouldn’t abandon them. We get a second, Stiles gets the strength and protection of the pack, and you know that where Stiles goes, Scott follows. Everybody wins.” 

And it sounds so damn logical. So logical, and so tempting, and _this_ is why Peter is so damn dangerous. Because Derek knows that what his uncle is suggesting is wrong. It’s wrong on so many levels and he will not consider it. He won’t do it, even though there’s a tiny part of him that can’t help but see the points that Peter is making. 

“Why the hell do you care if the pack gets stronger?” he demands hotly, desperate to interrupt Peter’s oh-so-inviting reasoning. “Won’t that make it harder to stab me in the back and take over?” 

Peter looks taken aback, as though he didn’t expect Derek to actually put that out in the open. Some indefinable emotion settles across his features. Peter is not actually that much older than Derek…he was the youngest of Derek’s mother’s siblings, only sixteen when Derek was born. For a bare instant, though, Peter looks absolutely ancient. 

“Well. If we’re being honest with each other,” Peter says, going for amused and just coming out bitter. “Yes. Make no mistake, Derek, if we weren’t currently sitting smack-dab in the eye of the proverbial shit storm, I’d have made a move to kill you when the lovely Miss Martin brought me back. But we are, and that moment has passed. Truthfully, I wasn’t ever cut out to be Alpha anymore than you were. It was always supposed to be my sister, and her daughter after her.” He doesn’t say their names. Doesn’t ever say their names. “And I’m not fool enough to try and stage a coup while there’s an Alpha pack breathing down our necks. So, no, Derek, I don’t particularly want to stab you in the back and take over anymore.” Peter’s mouth twists into a wry sort of smile. “But while you may have been satisfied with recruiting solely from the Island of Misfit Toys, _I_ would like to be part of a functioning pack. And if Stiles can make that happen, I’m all for it.” 

Derek swallows, his fingers twitching a little on the steering column. “And I’m just supposed to believe that?” 

Peter shrugs one shoulder. He narrows his eyes at the burnt-out hulk of their home. “I changed your diapers, Derek. I held you on my lap and read you bedtime stories.” He turns to pin Derek with a hard gaze. “And you’re the one who brought that _bitch_ down on our family. I hate you for that. I’ll never forgive you for it. You slit my throat and left me to rot in an unmarked grave, and I hate you for _that_. But you’re also all the family I have left in the world. You’re the only one who remembers all of them, who knows who they were, and you look just like your mother.” A broken, bitter laugh escapes his uncle’s lips. “I’m the one who murdered your sister. I terrorized this town and I almost killed you. You hate me for that. You’ll never forgive me for it. But I’m all the family you have left. I’m the only one who remembers them, and everyone knew I was your mother’s favorite brother. That’s why you haven’t driven me away and that’s why you won’t kill me. Aren’t we a pair?”

Derek just stares at his uncle, his breath catching in his throat. Something hard and hot and _hurting_ coils in his chest, and the air in the Camaro is suddenly too close. His skin feels like it’s being stretched too tightly over his bones, and he’s seized with the need to just get out of the car and _run_. Run and rend and tear at something until he can’t feel his own hurt anymore. He forces the urge down, clenching his eyes shut until he feels less like his body is trying to shake itself apart. 

“I’m not forcing the bite on Stiles,” he says into the darkness. “I don’t care if I can make him accept it, I can’t make him _want_ it. I won’t do that to him unless he wants it.” 

Peter shifts a bit in his seat. Derek looks over at him, expecting to see anger or exasperation or a thousand other emotions. What he sees is Peter’s eyes glittering with a mean sort of amusement. 

“Oh my dear boy,” his uncle says. “You have no idea how these kinds of spells work, do you?”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all! 
> 
> Thank you so much for all the comments and kudos on this :) I'm very glad people are enjoying this. Last bit of set-up here, and a little bit of drama, and in subsequent chapters, Derek is going to be a very bad, bad boy.

Derek doesn’t speak to Peter again after they finally exit the car and head into what’s left of the house. Peter snatches the messenger bag containing his laptop up from where it’s leaning against a decrepit couch that Derek had bought at a Salvation Army for fifteen bucks, and stalks towards the kitchen. Derek heads straight for what used to be the family library, where he’s been storing all the books he managed to salvage or acquire from elsewhere. The air still feels heavy and dense, a living thing pushing down on the back of Derek’s neck, squeezing his throat. Every breath tastes like ash. 

He’s used to it.

He considers following Peter for a brief instant—but he’s really not sure he can bear anymore of his uncle’s presence right now. Besides, while he doesn’t put it past him to try and hide any possible cure beyond offering the bite ( _forcing_ the bite, his mind whispers mutinously) to Stiles, he’s fairly certain the fact that Deaton will no doubt be double-checking any research is enough to keep Peter honest. Or at least as honest as Peter is capable of being. He tucks himself into a corner with a few volumes that look promising…though he’ll be the first to admit (if only to himself) that research isn’t really his strong suit. 

Another deficiency Stiles makes up for more often than not. 

He snarls to himself at the thought, closing his eyes briefly and letting his head fall back against the wall with a solid thump. There’s an ominous creaking sound from somewhere up above him, and a little bit of dirt and crumbling plaster dislodges from the burnt out timbers still clinging stubbornly to their purpose above him. He feels his mouth stretch into a bitter parody of a smile.

He can’t stop his mind from replaying Peter’s words, an awful, endless loop of painful truths, sour anger. He should kill Peter. He should at the very least drive him out of their territory, force him far away from the pack. He hates Peter. Hates him with every fiber of his being, hates him for the things he did when he was Alpha, for the way he nearly blew their secret wide open, for the way he brought every hunter within a hundred miles right to their doorstep. 

Hates him for the way he still snaps awake some nights, his heart pounding-screaming- _begging_ for Laura, Laura, Laura. He hates his uncle. 

Yet, he knows Peter’s right. Derek can’t kill him. Not again. He can’t drive him away, either. They never talk about their family. Never even say their names. But there is some comfort in knowing that he’s not the only one on the planet who remembers what his mother’s smile looked like, or can recall the way his father sang along with the radio in the mornings. It’s cold comfort. Cold and brittle and rotten as a bone dug from the grave...but Derek has learned to take what scraps he can and guard them with his life. 

Peter’s right; and he can’t help the small part of him that wonders if Peter was right about the rest of it. He can’t stop his mind from replaying Peter’s words, an awful, endless loop of painful truths, sour anger--and dark, dark promise. He wouldn’t…he would _never_ do something so underhanded as what Peter had suggested. He wouldn’t do that to Stiles. He’s not that kind of monster, and no matter what anyone else thinks of him he will never _be_ that kind of monster. He won’t. But…

But.

If turning Stiles could break the spell? If there’s no other option? If they can’t turn up some other, less life-altering solution? If Stiles—if Stiles chooses to be bitten rather than stay at the mercy of the magic compelling him? 

He hates himself a little bit, but he can’t help picturing it. His teeth ache a little at the thought of Stiles baring his neck for him, _letting_ Derek change him. Becoming one of them. And to be sure, it’s not like Derek has any illusions—even as a wolf, Stiles would be mouthy. Contrary. Would push, and push, and push, and even though he’d instinctively know (finally!) where the line was, he’d set his toes against it every time. 

But all the care and loyalty Stiles had shown the pack in the last couple of weeks would be theirs, permanently. The stubborn spirit and strength—the kind of strength that could stand up to a crazed Alpha, the kind of strength that charged into life-threatening situations, the kind of strength that would tread water for hours on end to keep them alive—would be theirs, permanently. The bright intelligence and refusal to ever give up would be theirs, permanently.

Would be Derek’s, permanently.

If Derek could be _saving_ the boy by turning him, if Stiles could belong to the pack without the taint of trickery or resentment (and least not the sort of resentment that can’t be overcome), if Stiles could belong to hi-- 

He shakes his head, as though he could physically dislodge the thought. There’s no point in getting ahead of himself. There’s no guarantee it will even come to that. He forces himself to start flicking through the brittle, half-rotted pages of the book in his lap, skimming through the section he thinks might be useful. He settles back against the wall, stretching his legs out in front of him and crossing his ankles. 

The hours creep well past midnight. He hears Peter eventually leave the kitchen and head towards the back of the house, where some of the rooms are a little less damaged. At least the roof is still intact. The house is less comfortable than the subway station…but also less compromised and farther away from any possible prying eyes. He forgoes his own bed in the back of the house in favor of paging through a few more tomes. 

It’s nearly three in the morning when he finally finds what he’s looking for. He sits up from his slouch against the wall, one finger skimming lightly over what looks like a journal entry detailing the casting of a compulsion spell. There is spidery, faded handwriting in the margins of the page—what appears to be notes on different levels of compulsion that can be achieved, the ways the spell can be tailored to different individuals. There is nothing about how to _break_ such a spell…but as Derek reads, the back of his neck starts to prickle, and something hard and hot clenches low in his gut. 

“ _Oh my dear boy. You have no idea how these kinds of spells work, do you?_ ”

* * *

He’s already awake when Isaac texts him early the next morning. Not that he ever really went to sleep—instead stretching out on the crappy couch and napping in fits and bursts. He rakes one hand back through his hair as he reads the texts, sighing in irritation. Erica and Jackson had found nothing of any real use at the apartment they had finally tracked the witch to—not that Derek had been particularly expecting them to. Isaac and Erica had opted to stay at Scott’s house last night, and Scott had managed to get in touch with Deaton as soon as he and Stiles were in. They were meeting the vet at the office before business hours, and Derek glances up at the clock in the corner of his phone’s screen.

He has time to make it if he hurries. 

He takes a few moments to change into clean(ish) clothes and splash a bit of water on his face from a bottle he left lying on the floor by the mattress he’s been sleeping on, then detours into the library to grab the two books he’d found last night that seemed to have the most information about what could have been done to Stiles. 

Peter is already there, leaning against the blackened stone of the fireplace that had dominated one wall as he casually leafs through one of the books Derek had been reading. Derek pauses on the threshold of the room, eyes narrowing, but Peter merely glances up mildly. His features are carefully schooled into the bland sort of disinterest that hasn’t fooled Derek since he was twelve, but Derek is honestly in no mood to deal with Peter’s bullshit. He’s somewhere in the weird twilight between too tired to function properly and too keyed up to sleep (and while he has gotten used to functioning on pure adrenaline, he doesn’t particularly like it), and he doesn’t know if he can stand to listen to Peter spin more of his enticing, poisonous words, painting pictures of things that Derek has been so careful in reminding himself he can’t have. 

Peter doesn’t say anything, though. He just watches Derek with too-sharp eyes as he snaps the book closed and holds it out like a peace offering. Derek takes the book with a roll of his eyes, tucking it and the other one he wanted under one arm. It isn’t until he’s turning to leave that Peter finally says anything.

“This might come in handy, too.” When he turns around again, Peter is holding a jump drive out, the same mild, polite smile on his face; looking like butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. “Not surprisingly, there’s very few records of these kinds of curses, but I did find a few useful references in my archive. Not very much about how to cure it, I’m afraid.” Peter’s mouth twists into a mockery of a disappointed frown. 

“Stop,” Derek growls, snatching the jump drive out of Peter’s hands. “Just stop it.”

Peter arches an eyebrow, raising both his hands in sarcastic surrender. “I’m just saying.”

Derek turns on his heel without another word and stalks out of the house, Peter’s amused chuckles following him the whole way. He drives too fast and too aggressively on the way to Deaton’s office, hurling the Camaro around turns and gunning the engine over rough road just for the challenge of keeping it under control. It distracts him from the older of the two books sliding around in the passenger seat beside him, the words he’d read in its moldered pages. 

The places he couldn’t keep his mind from jumping to when he read them. 

The tight, uncomfortable feeling prickles across his neck again, radiating tension down into his chest and shoulders. He drums his fingers agitatedly across the surface of the steering wheel and resolutely doesn’t speculate about what he’s learned. He’s not even sure if any of it is right. He reminds himself fiercely that it doesn’t _matter_ , either way.

And shies away from the realization that he’s nearly to Deaton’s office before that thought occurs to him.

He parks beside Stiles’ jeep, and climbs out of the car, the books and Peter’s jump drive tucked under one arm. Isaac is lounging against the side of the building by the door, still dressed in the clothes from last night. He straightens as Derek approaches, and Derek gives him a once-over, frowning slightly at how tired Isaac looks. 

“Hey,” Isaac says. “Sorry we didn’t ask if you wanted us to stay with Scott and Stiles last night. We just thought they could use some backup if anything…well, you know, if anything went wrong.” Isaac’s eyes slide down and to the left as he talks, and Derek doesn’t need werewolf senses to know he’s only getting a part of the story. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out Isaac and Erica staying over at Scott’s last night was less about potential protection from enemies and more about them simply being worried about Stiles. 

It’s exactly the instinct a pack should follow, exactly what they _should_ have done, though Derek’s not about to give voice to his thoughts. Instead he just nods shortly. “It’s fine.” He sighs heavily, glancing around before catching Isaac’s eyes firmly. “I want at least one of you to stick with him at all times until we figure out how to break this thing.” Isaac’s eyes widen in surprise. “He’s a liability like this, to all of us. If the hunters or any of the Alpha pack find out they can just make him tell them everything he knows about us…” he trails off meaningfully, and sees comprehension dawning in Isaac’s expression.

That’s not the only reason he wants one of his Betas guarding Stiles ( _he_ wants to be the one guarding Stiles, but he knows Stiles won’t accept his presence unless he absolutely has to), but it’s the only one he’s willing to share. He remembers Peter’s knowing smirk and teasing tone from the night before, and he doesn’t really care to explain himself to the others. 

Isaac nods dutifully. “They’re already trying to come up with a good cover for Stiles’ staying over at Scott’s for a while. Just in case this isn’t an easy fix.” Isaac pauses, and looks up at Derek hopefully, as though he wants Derek to jump in and assure him that there _will_ be an easy fix. 

Derek remains silent.

Isaac wilts a little, but presses on. “It shouldn’t be a problem for a few days…Scott’s mom is covering for them and I guess—uh, I got the feeling things are pretty tense between Stiles and his dad right now.” Isaac’s voice goes quiet at the end of his words, and despite himself, Derek wonders how much of that strain is due to Stiles’ activity with the pack. He’s pretty sure the answer would be: a lot. 

“We’ll deal with that when we have to,” Derek mutters, and pulls the door open. He feels the barest tingle of power brushing over him as he and Isaac cross the threshold of the building, and into the Mountain Ash’s influence. It’s noticeable now only because Derek knows to look for it. 

They follow soft voices back into Deaton’s exam room, to find Erica, Stiles, and Scott all crowded around the man. Erica immediately makes room in the huddle for Isaac and Derek, while Scott and Stiles shoot Derek nearly identical looks of confusion. As Stiles turns his head, Derek catches sight of a darkening bruise on the side of his face—one that definitely wasn’t there the night before. 

“What happened to you?” he demands, his mouth engaging almost completely without his permission. He flicks his eyes over the boy, searching for other injuries. Stiles lets out a short bark of laughter utterly devoid of humor. 

“Yeah, Scott, what happened to me?” Stiles asks sarcastically, and Derek’s eyes dart over to Scott—who looks shamefacedly abashed. 

“Dude, I said I was sorry!” Scott protests. “I forgot!” 

“You ‘forgot’, like, twelve times last night. I got _cursed_ , Scott. Like—the no one believes your terrible visions, fall asleep for a hundred years, odd-numbered-Star-Trek-movies-always-suck kind of cursed! How do you ‘forget’ that?” Stiles lets out an irritated huff, crossing his arms over his chest. 

“Scott yelled at him to hurry up in the shower this morning,” Erica supplies breezily, though her eyes are softer than Derek is used to seeing when she looks at Stiles. “Apparently he’s even more of a klutz when he’s speeding.” Stiles shoots her a dirty look, sticking his tongue out like a child.

“And on that note,” Deaton interrupts, “I’m going to need all of you to clear out of here.” 

“Wait, what? Why? I thought you said you’d help us.” Instantly, the caustic, irritated cast drops from Stiles’ body language, and Derek—Derek suddenly feels like an idiot.

Stiles’ skin is ghost-pale, the bruise on his face standing out in stark relief, second only to the dark smudges under his eyes. He looks like he didn’t sleep a wink last night, and there’s a cowed, defensive hunch to his shoulders that Derek is unused to seeing. His hands are flitting about like nervous birds—tapping on the metal exam table in front of him, twisting in the hem of his shirt, drumming on the tops of his thighs. When Derek surreptitiously leans in a bit closer and takes a breath, the sour smell of _fearfearfear_ hits him. Even here, protected by Deaton’s magical barriers, surrounded by his best friend and people that mean him no harm, Stiles is afraid. Afraid and still trying so desperately to hide it, and Derek wonders how many times ‘like twelve’ really was, how many times Scott accidentally and oh-so-casually slapped Stiles in the face with how vulnerable he is right now. 

The urge to grab Scott by the back of the neck and just _shake_ him itches in Derek’s fingers, and only the knowledge that Stiles wouldn’t appreciate the sentiment at all, and that Scott genuinely would never do anything to hurt his friend on _purpose_ keeps him from doing it. 

“I will, Stiles. I promise,” Deaton says gently. “But you kids seem to keep forgetting that I didn’t actually graduate from Hogwarts and I need to know exactly what we’re dealing with.” 

“I brought everything I could find in my resources,” Derek says suddenly, holding out the books and the jump drive to Deaton. He doesn’t mention where the research on the jump drive came from—Peter’s presence in the pack has been a sore spot between Derek and Deaton the few times they’ve interacted since Peter was resurrected. The man takes them with a nod of thanks. “It looks like a compulsion spell.”

“Yeah, I figured. Unfortunately, there’s several types…and the cure depends on how deep the compulsion runs.” He takes a deep breath, and when he looks up at Stiles again, there’s actually an expression of discomfort on his normally calm features. “I’m sorry, Stiles, but I’m going to have to test the limits of the spell.” 

Everyone falls silent, their eyes falling on Stiles, who swallows roughly, gnawing on his lip. A tiny shudder passes through him. “So there’s no…I mean, you can’t just chant some words or wave some charms and make it go away?” 

Deaton sighs. “Afraid not, son. Think of it like a giant knot. I can’t start untying it until I know where the ends are. It might be a matter of chanting some words or waving some charms…but if I don’t know exactly how the spell works, trying to break it could really hurt you.” His voice drops solemnly. “It could even make it permanent.” 

“Oh holy God,” Stiles says fatalistically, dropping his head and leaning against the exam table for a moment. “All right. All right, all right, all right. Do your worst. Just—can Scott stay?” he asks, and there is something fragile as spun glass in his voice. It makes Derek clench his fists, and out of the corner of his eye, he sees anger flash across Erica and Isaac’s faces. 

“Of course,” Deaton says immediately. “But actually, I’d like Derek here as well, if you don’t mind.” 

Derek’s head snaps up at the same time Stiles’ does. Stiles’ brow furrows, and Derek knows his own confusion is showing on his face. Deaton’s lips thin into a grim line. “No offense to Scott, but Derek’s reflexes are faster.” 

“Reflexes? We need _reflexes_?” Stiles…squeaks. There’s no other word for it. Derek might be a little bit amused if Stiles’ eyes were not so round with fear. Deaton’s mouth tilts unhappily, and he looks sad and regretful. 

“I’m going to need to see what this spell can make you do. I promise you, no one is going to get hurt, _you_ will not get hurt…but you have—I need you to trust me,” Deaton amends hastily, barely stopping himself from giving a command. 

For a moment, Stiles looks as though he’s going to vomit. Or maybe pass out. Like every other time, every other _fucking_ time he’s been faced with something that would have most people curling up in a corner and begging for mercy, though, Stiles rallies. He squeezes his eyes shut for just an instant, and then draws himself up to his full height. He squares his shoulders, chin jutting up in that stubborn, defiant manner that Derek has become so familiar with over the past months. He puffs out a breath of air, nodding faintly. 

“Okay. Whatever you need to do, just do it.”

 

* * *

 

Deaton starts off easy. Simple little commands like telling Stiles to do jumping jacks, or tell him foolish, inconsequential facts. Despite the situation, Derek’s eyebrow climbs in surprise when Deaton makes Stiles spell his given name. 

“How is that even pronounced?” he asks is disbelief, before he can stop himself. He honestly hadn’t pegged the Sheriff as the type to torture his offspring with a name like _that_. Stiles shoots him an annoyed look, cheeks going a little pink.

“Very slowly,” Stiles answers with a little bit of his usual wit. “Now you know why I go by Stiles. I’m lucky I didn’t fail kindergarten, having to spell that bitch.” 

After that exchange, Deaton starts moving on. They already know Stiles is forced to do simple physical things. Derek suspects that the only reason the vet bothered with it at all was to try and make Stiles a little more comfortable by starting with something he knew to expect. Whatever comfort Stiles might have gleaned from the action, though, is quickly outstripped by growing horror. 

There are different levels of compulsion spells. Derek gathered that much from his reading last night, and Deaton confirms it. Some are limited merely to the physical. Some can be resisted or fought. Some compulsions are bound by time limits, and some cannot force the victim to harm themselves. 

The sickly green light sparks through Stiles’ eyes, and the curse on him proves to have no such limitations. 

Stiles manages to resist a command for roughly thirty seconds, his face going red with strain and sweat standing out on his forehead until he gives in with a cry, bending down to grab the pen Deaton told him to pick up off the floor. “It _hurts_ to try and not do it,” he gasps, trying to describe the sensation. “It feels like something’s trying to claw its way out of my head.” 

He rattles off the most embarrassing secret he knows about Scott (and really, Derek could have lived his life without knowing that Scott McCall used to jerk off to the women’s underwear section in his mom’s JC Penny catalog because he was too embarrassed to buy real skin mags or watch internet porn) with no regard to the fact that he’d been sworn to secrecy. 

He writes down a list of words on a piece of paper, and then stares at it in confusion when Deaton tells him to forget what he just did. Derek feels a chill race up his spine at that, and he and Scott exchange alarmed looks. Stiles’ hands start shaking, and Scott immediately leans in close, squeezing Stiles across the shoulders in a one-armed hug. 

“All right, last test,” Deaton sighs finally. He looks weary, and a little bit resigned, and Derek is fairly certain that the past half-hour have only confirmed the whatever suspicions the man already had. “And Stiles…no matter what, no one is getting hurt. You remember that, right?” 

“Y-yeah,” Stiles says hesitantly. He chews on the inside of his cheek a moment, before seeming to steel himself. “I trust you,” he says. Deaton nods, but if anything looks even wearier. 

“Good,” he says. “Now take that scalpel and stab yourself in the throat as hard as you can.” He points to a tray of shiny, neatly arranged tools that Stiles is standing next to. 

Derek is lunging even as Stiles’ hand darts out, fingers curling around the scalpel and lifting it. The metal winks in the sunlight streaming in through the windows as it arcs towards Stiles’ neck, the speed only slightly hindered by the awkward angle. He lunges forward, and catches Stiles’ wrist bare, the sharp blade bare inches from the vulnerable skin of Stiles’ throat. 

Incredibly, Stiles tries to fight him, tugging fruitlessly at the limb, still trying to stab himself even as he screams, “Stop! Stop, God, someone make me stop!” The pulse in his wrist is thundering under Derek’s fingers, fluttering madly in the hollow of his throat. 

“Stiles, stop, don’t…just give it to me!” Derek snaps, scrabbling at the long fingers clutching the scalpel’s handle with his free hand. Instantly, Stiles’ hand opens, dropping the scalpel into Derek’s open palm, and he flings the instrument across the room from them. For one brief moment, Stiles’ hand, the one not still clutched in Derek’s grip, latches onto his shoulder, fingers digging spasmodically into the leather of Derek’s jacket as his whole body starts to sag. Then, abruptly, he jerks himself upright, starts pulling at his trapped wrist with renewed vigor. 

“Get off, let me go. Let me go, let me go, let me **go**!” he shouts, and there is nothing but pure desperation in his voice. Derek wants to snarl, wants to pull Stiles even closer, wrap himself around the boy until he stops trembling, until the desperate _terror_ leeches away from him…but he can’t. Stiles doesn’t want that from him. He can’t do anything but let Stiles go and watch as the boy immediately scrambles backwards, nearly tripping over himself as he runs, as he _sprints_ out of the exam room. Scott follows a bare instant later, and Derek hears the startled shouts of Erica and Isaac, hears the door to the little bathroom just off the office waiting room slam open. 

Seconds after that, he hears the sounds of retching. 

Content for the moment that Scott will take care of Stiles (and Erica and Isaac will make sure he doesn’t make things worse), Derek whirls on Deaton, his eyes glowing red and his fangs _aching_ in his mouth. 

“What the hell was that?!” he demands, stalking forward and slamming his fists down on the exam table that separates him from Deaton. 

“Thank you for stopping him,” Deaton says calmly, and it’s all Derek can do not to just dive across the table and throttle the man. 

“What if I hadn’t been fast enough? What then?! You could have killed him!”

Instead of quailing in the face of six feet of snarling Alpha werewolf, Deaton quite deliberately turns his back and starts messing with a tray of bottles on the counter behind him. “I knew you’d be fast enough to stop anything from happening. That’s why I wanted you back here, too.” 

The retching stops after a few moments, and over the soft, distressed whine Isaac probably isn’t even aware he’s making, Derek can hear Scott talking softly, promising over and over that they’ll find a way to break the spell, that he won’t let anything happen to Stiles, that they’ll _all_ make sure he’s okay.

“At least tell me you know how to fix this,” he growls, struggling to rein in the wolf that wants so desperately to break free. In answer, Deaton sighs heavily. 

“I know someone who can tell me how,” the man hedges. He leans forward, bracing his hands on the counter as his head hangs against his chest. “It’s not going to be easy, though. Derek…this is the absolute worst version of this particular kind of curse. You saw it. He can be ordered to do _anything_. Someone could tell him to pick up a gun and shoot his father in the face, _and he’d do it_.” The vet turns around, pinning Derek with a gaze that is worried and a little bit frightened. “There are no limits on the compulsions. It’s got control of his body and his mind.” 

“The word list…” Derek says slowly, and the implications of what Deaton is saying start to sink in. 

“Derek,” Deaton says seriously, “I know you and Stiles don’t get along, but you’ve got to protect him while I work on breaking it. As much as he’s helped you out, you and your pack owe him this. I know Scott and the others mean well, and they’ll help. But you saw what happened to Stiles’ face this morning. Scott doesn’t _think_ before he speaks…they’re teenagers; none of them do. I need you to understand: if someone tells him to do something, he’ll do it. If someone tells him to forget something, he’ll do it. If someone tells him to think or feel something, he’ll do it. I don’t think I need to spell out what someone with bad intentions could do to him, while he’s like this.” 

It’s possibly the most direct Deaton has ever been with him. And judging by the pointed look in the man’s eye, Derek knows he’s not just giving a general warning. 

“I won’t let Peter near him,” Derek says quietly. “I wasn’t going to, anyway.” The tight set of Deaton’s shoulders relaxes a little, and the man nods, plainly relieved.

“All right, then. Thank you.” Deaton heads for the door to the waiting room, clapping Derek on the shoulder as he passes. Derek follows more slowly. Stiles and Scott are out of the bathroom, and Stiles is currently slumped in one of the uncomfortable plastic chairs by the front door. Scott is standing as close as he possibly can, one hand resting on Stiles’ shoulder, while Isaac hovers on his other side. Erica is crouched down in front of him, whispering softly, and whatever she says brings a watery smile to Stiles’ lips. Derek pauses, hanging back a moment to just watch them. 

He watches. And he _wants_.

And he tries to ignore the way Deaton’s words are echoing in his head.


	5. Chapter 5

It takes Stiles a little while to get himself back together. He curls in on himself in the hard plastic of the waiting room chair, shoulders hunched over and eyes darting nervously over the small group gathered around him. He nods jerkily at Deaton’s quiet apology for not warning him about what he planned to do, at the vet’s reassurance that he never would have pulled the stunt with the scalpel if he hadn’t been absolutely sure that Derek or Scott would stop Stiles before he could hurt himself. He can’t bring himself to look Deaton in the eyes, though. Scott’s hand stays steady and firm on his back, right between his shoulder blades, and Stiles presses back against it a little, even as he gives his attention to some inconsequential story Erica is telling him in a bid to distract him. His hands are curled into fists in his lap, clenched tight against shaking, and his heart beats a manic tattoo of nervous fear in his chest. 

It takes him a little while to get himself back together—but not nearly as long as Derek is expecting. Not as long as he suspects it would take _any_ of the others to get themselves under control. 

He can literally watch as Stiles’ spine straightens, as he calls on whatever reserves of sheer, iron-willed determination have kept him going over the past months. He watches as Stiles stares hard at his hands, fisting them tightly enough that the skin of his knuckles goes stark white, before releasing them slowly—with not even the slightest tremor. Stiles’ features smooth over into an approximation of their usual expression, and his mouth twists into something resembling an amused smirk. 

“Well,” he says, “at least it’s summer, now. Can’t make me do your homework, losers!” 

Derek is not the only one who goes still, uncertain of how to react at the joke. Stiles’ voice is all wrong…it’s the cocky, jovial tone he uses when he’s taunting something he _knows_ is bigger than him, stronger than him; the one he uses when he’s doing everything he can not to let on how afraid he is. Stiles’ chin lifts defiantly, the smirk freezing on his mouth. There’s something a little desperate in his eyes, and Derek is suddenly struck with the feeling that Stiles _needs_ them to let him have this, needs them to let him joke and jest and belittle what’s happened to him. He needs them to go along with him, or he’s not going to be able to handle it. 

Scott is the one who gets it first, nodding to himself silently as he squeezes Stiles’ shoulder one more time. Derek watches the boy force a lopsided grin—and Scott’s not nearly as good at hiding his emotions as Stiles is—and tilt his head slyly. 

“Maybe not, but it looks like I can get you to make me your grandma’s caramel brownies whenever I want, for a while. Ooh, I can even get the recipe finally!”

Stiles twists in his chair to shoot a mock glare up at his friend, and there is such naked relief on his face that for a moment, Derek feels like he should avert his eyes. He doesn’t, of course, instead staring as Stiles and Scott dissolve into the sort of back-and-forth banter (not as smooth and carefree as it used to be, he notices) that has characterized their friendship for as long as he’s known them. 

Stiles starts looking a touch less brittle around the edges. Isaac glances at Derek over his shoulder as though asking permission, before shoving his hands in his pockets and grinning a little. “Hey Scott’s right…I can get you to give me all your cheat codes.” 

Stiles whirls on Isaac, one hand going to his chest. “Dude! Are you suggesting I’m not just an Xbox prodigy? I’m hurt. Really, Isaac, that wounds me.” 

“You leveled up your weapons, like, three times in one hour playing C.O.D. the other night. You’re totally cheating.”

“Yeah, well, you’ve both got freaky werewolf reflexes. I gotta do something to compensate,” Stiles grumbles, crossing his arms defensively over his chest. Still, the terrible tension in him seems to have eased off, and when he looks up at Deaton again, Derek can tell that he’s centered himself as much as he’s able, and is ready to start actively seeking answers. 

Distantly, Derek wonders just when in the hell he had become so attuned to Stiles Stilinski’s every nuanced expression. 

He suspects it was right around the time he’d felt wiry arms close around him at the bottom of that godforsaken pool for a second time, and the realization that Stiles really _hadn’t_ left him to drown had started setting in. 

“So,” Stiles drawls out, eyes focusing sharply on Deaton. “How, um, how does this thing get broken?” His face twists unpleasantly. “I don’t have to drink anything weird do I? ‘Cause I looked up some of the things all those Latin labels in your storeroom translate to…there are _way_ too many tongues of small animals and powdered testicles on your shelves, man.” 

Deaton smiles kindly at the boy, what looks like pride flickering in his gaze for a moment before he sobers. “Honestly, I’m not sure what breaking this will entail. I’ve never dealt with anything like it directly…fortunately, magic this powerful is actually pretty rare. I have to get in touch with some contacts.” 

The man leans against the wall, crossing his arms over his chest as a troubled expression settles on his features. “And you should know—this might be beyond me. No, no, no, settle down.” Deaton holds up one hand, forestalling the protests of every teenager in the room. 

Immediately, he winces, and Derek can’t help the growl in his chest as Stiles’ heartbeat literally smoothes out right there. The sour tang of fear vanishes from his scent, and the same eerie calm from last night settles over him. 

“Holy crap, this feels _so_ weird,” Stiles mutters. “Also, seriously? It doesn’t even have to be an order addressed to me?”

“I’m sorry, Stiles,” Deaton says. The vet shoots a look around all of them, as if they need yet another reminder that they all have to be mindful of the way they’re phrasing things right now. Stiles makes a dismissive gesture with one hand. 

“It’s fine… _this_ is kind of useful, actually. You all officially have my permission to stop me from freaking out over this until it’s over. So, okay, contacts?”

Deaton nods. “I have a…friend…who’s something of an expert in this kind of magic. He’ll be able to tell me how to lift the curse. And if it’s too powerful, he can come down and do it himself.” 

“Why do I feel like there’s a ‘but’ coming up?” Stiles asks rhetorically, sighing to himself. 

“Because you’re a very astute young man,” Deaton says wryly. “ _But_ , getting in touch with my friend is difficult sometimes. Stiles, there is a cure for this, and we _will_ get you back to normal. I’m afraid it could take a while, though.”

Stiles swallows roughly, and Derek can’t force himself to stay silent any longer. “How long is a ‘while’?” he asks, demands really, suspicion thick in his voice. 

Deaton looks apologetic. “Several days, at least. Realistically, probably a couple of weeks.” His voice lowers. “Worst case scenario? A month or more.”

* * *

He sends Isaac and Erica back to the house with his car. Honestly, he doesn’t like the thought of leaving Peter unsupervised in the place he’s currently sleeping for too long, and neither of them particularly have a head for any of this. 

‘This’ being a strategy meeting in the back of Deaton’s office over how best to keep Stiles (and them) as safe as possible while he could literally be ordered to kill them all in their sleep. Derek wouldn’t admit it even under torture, but he’s fairly certain Stiles could actually find a way to do it if he set his mind to it—or someone _else_ set his mind to it. 

He pulls Erica and Isaac to the side just before they leave, pitching his voice low enough that Scott won’t be able to hear over the noise of the animals in Deaton’s care. “I already told Isaac, but I don’t want him left alone until this is over.” He purses his lips, considering. “And I don’t care what you have to do, do _not_ let him be alone with Peter. Ever.” 

Erica’s eyes go wide, but Isaac’s narrow in consideration. “Are you going to tell Scott and Stiles?” he asks softly. Derek’s jaw clenches at the thought. Scott would just brush off the warning as simple common sense (not that Scott McCall and ‘common sense’ really seemed to be on speaking terms most of the time), but Stiles…Stiles would figure out the deeper implications. 

He shakes his head and wishes he could say it’s because he doesn’t want to heap more worry on Stiles’ plate, or make him paranoid, or any other noble reason that has Stiles’ best interests at heart. Wishes he could say that it was anything other than him not wanting Stiles to think Derek might be in on any of Peter’s less-than-pure intentions. Not wanting Stiles to decide to withdraw from the pack preemptively to protect himself. 

Not wanting him to figure out that Derek had even listened to Peter’s cruel, cruel ideas.

Not wanting him to figure out that there had been a part of Derek, however small, that had considered them. 

“Not until I think it’s necessary,” he hedges, knowing that Erica will take his words at face-value and Isaac will assume he’s still smarting over Scott not sharing information with him about Argent. His Betas nod and hurry out of the office, leaving Derek to scrub at eyes that are starting to burn with lack of sleep—and really, he doesn’t want to think about just how much sleep he’s been missing over the past weeks for it to actually start affecting him—and stalks back to the office. 

Stiles is sitting on one of Deaton’s exam room stools, idly spinning it back and forth and staring fixedly out the small window over the back counter. He glances over as Derek steps through the door, eyes almost immediately skittering away again. Scott and Deaton are having a quiet but intense conversation by one of the exam tables, one that breaks off as soon as Derek appears. 

Derek gets the feeling he missed something.

He ignores Scott’s mutinous glare (less severe than usual, and he’s reminded again of just how far Scott has come in the past two weeks, how far Stiles has _brought_ him). He leans back against the counter, resolutely ignoring the tray of instruments—the scalpel that, _God_ , Stiles had tried to stab himself with neatly back in its place—and schools his features into his usual impassive mask. 

“All right, boys…we need to decide on a course of action here. Stiles, obviously, you need to—that is, you should try to keep yourself as much as possible—“ Deaton starts, and is interrupted by Stiles’ indelicate snort. 

“Yeah, ‘cause I usually have such a jumping social calendar,” he says, and Derek is a little disconcerted to note that he doesn’t sound as bitter or sarcastic as he was clearly going for…just tired and resigned. He scrubs his hand back over his hair. “Scott and the other puppies are pretty much the only people I see these days.”

“What about your dad? How are things there?” Deaton asks gently. Stiles isn’t quite quick enough to stifle a wince. Scott shifts guiltily, looking a little forlorn. Stiles, though—Stiles just looks bleak. 

“They haven’t managed to replace all of the staff after…after Matt. Deputized a couple of National Guardsmen in town, and I guess they’re getting a few rookies when the next Academy class graduates in a month. Not that _that’s_ gonna help, much, ‘cause Dad’s still gonna have to potty-train the newbies. Anyway, long story short, we pretty much only see each other coming and going these days. I should be able to get away with staying at Scott’s most days.”

There is a wealth of unspoken words in the casual statement. Derek finds himself shifting uneasily, hating the misery that shines in Stiles’ eyes for a moment, and hating the way he immediately just shrugs it aside even more. Hating that there’s nothing he can really _do_ about it most of all. The sheriff would be a useful ally, true, but the danger that knowing their secrets would put him in currently outweighs the benefits. As long as that’s true, Stiles won’t consider telling him, and Derek’s not going to bring it up. 

Stiles reaches up to rub his eyes, digging the heels of his palms into his eye sockets hard enough that it has to hurt a little. He looks so tired. So tired, and so beaten down, but there’s still that spark of defiance in him, still that refusal to just lie down and give up when absolutely no one would even blame him for doing just that. He blinks hazily when his hands drop back down into his lap, a fatalistic sort of smile settling on his lips. 

“Well, I guess things could be worse,” he says. 

“Dude, seriously? How could things be worse?” Scott asks immediately. 

Stiles just shrugs one shoulder, looking at Scott flatly. “Uh, it could be an Alpha werewolf running around with the shiny curse that removes ‘no’ from his vocabulary? You’re welcome, by the way.” Stiles’ eyes slant over to him for an instant, sharp and sarcastic. And that…that hadn’t actually occurred to Derek, yet. 

He straightens from his slouch against the counter, inhaling sharply. He hadn’t thought about it, about Stiles throwing himself into the spell’s path, too distracted by the spell’s effects and Peter’s machinations. His gut goes cold at the thought of being trapped the way Stiles currently is, of all his strength and power available for anyone to use. God, for _Peter_ to use. He thinks of being stripped of the control that he sometimes feels is the only thing that keeps him from flying apart at the seams, and his throat tightens. 

Stiles’ mouth twists unpleasantly. “Don’t get me wrong, this sucks like a fucking Hoover…but if it had to hit one of us, let’s be honest. Better me than Derek.” There is a thread of ruthless practicality in Stiles’ voice. He starts the stool spinning again, turning his attention back to the window. Almost against his will—and isn’t that ironic?—Derek finds his gaze drawn to the boy’s profile as he rocks back and forth. 

Stiles would be annoying, and contrary, and would push, and push, and push at his boundaries…but Peter is right. Ultimately, when push really came to shove, Stiles would be an _excellent_ wolf. An excellent second. An excellent—

Derek shies away from that train of thought. No good, it does him no good to want things he can’t have and he needs to damn well _remember_ that. 

Deaton doesn’t have any other advice to offer, beyond Stiles trying to stay away from anyone who might accidentally (or on purpose) order him to do something. Granted, the best plan that they can come up with is for him to stay over at Scott’s as much as possible. Derek isn’t sure _that’s_ a particularly safe plan, given the incident with the shower. There aren’t any other options, though. 

Stiles eventually calls a halt to the gathering, citing a need to go to his house and get some more clothes before his father gets off shift. Scott immediately straightens, jumping off the counter he’s been sitting on, and Stiles sighs heavily. 

“Actually, dude, you mind just meeting me back at your house? I just wanna drive around a little.” He rolls his eyes a little when Scott looks at him blankly. “By myself,” he says pointedly. 

“Uh…didn’t we all just agree that you shouldn’t be doing _anything_ by yourself?” Scott asks, glancing over at Deaton as though for confirmation. 

“Look, I promise, I’ll drive straight to my house and then straight to yours and I’ll keep the radio cranked up the whole time. I just…I need—“

“I’ll go with him,” Derek finds himself saying. Stiles startles a little, as if he had actually forgotten Derek was there. 

“And this is supposed to help with the ‘by myself’ thing how?” Stiles asks. He crosses his arms over his chest, hunching his shoulders again, and Derek tries not to think about how easy he is with the rest of the pack. He’s not afraid of Derek, per se. It’s been a long time since he was actually afraid of Derek. He’s not wary of Derek the way he is of Peter, either—but he doesn’t trust Derek. Not really. 

Derek tries not to think about how much he wishes that wasn’t the case, as well. 

“It’s not,” Derek says blandly, forcing his tone into neutrality. “But I think that little display in the back room proved just how bad an idea you being alone right now is. So me or Scott. You can pick.” He is careful not to just make it a command, but leaves no room for argument in his voice, and a glance at Scott and Deaton tells him they’re going to back him on this. 

Stiles’ jaw clenches, one cheek hallowing slightly as he starts chewing on the flesh of it. Derek is pretty sure he knows exactly why Stiles wants to go off by himself—he’s looking for time to process, to try and get this whole mess sorted in his head. Moreover, he’s looking to do it away from prying eyes. However much he’s been asking for Scott to stay close, right now Stiles just wants silence. He wants a few minutes to just think, and not have the air filled with awkward chatter. 

Silence is definitely something Derek can provide. 

Evidently, Stiles realizes this, too. He sighs gustily after a moment. “Fine. You can come. But you’re carrying all my bags. Scott, you okay to get home?”

Scott’s eyes dart between Derek and Stiles for a moment, but eventually he shrugs. “Sure. I need to get the inventory done here, anyway,” he says. 

Stiles nods shortly, and leaps up off of the stool. He pulls his keys out of the pocket of his jeans as he reaches Derek’s side, nodding his goodbye to Deaton. Scott claps him on the shoulder as he passes. “Hey, it’ll be okay,” he says quietly. Stiles shoots him a shaky smile, and Scott grins back. “You look like shit, man…get some—“ Derek is darting forward before Scott is even done speaking “—sleep,” Scott finishes blithely. 

Stiles drops like a marionette with its strings cut. 

Derek catches him around the chest, keeping the boy from hitting the ground. He glares at Scott, whose eyes have gone wide as saucers. His hands are clapped over his mouth, guilty and remorseful, and _seriously_?

“How are you even still alive?” Derek asks testily, shifting Stiles’ deadweight into a more comfortable grip.

*

They get better at watching what they say and how they say it. Of course they do. By the end of the first week, it can even be said that they’ve adjusted. For the most part, anyway. 

Jackson can’t stand to be around Stiles. Not that they’ve ever been friends, but every time Jackson looks at Stiles, he gets a look on his face like he’s going to be ill. None of them really have to question it, have to ask what kind of memories and thoughts seeing Stiles like this might be bringing up for Jackson. Stiles himself just smiles sadly and gives Jackson his space. 

Scott continues to start running his mouth without thinking, but there are fortunately no more instances of Stiles’ face meeting a shower faucet (or being rendered unconscious in the middle of the vet’s office) and eventually even he manages to not give Stiles direct imperatives at least eighty percent of the time. 

Isaac, Boyd, and Erica are a bit fierce in their protectiveness…and even though Derek has been watching it happen, even though he _approves_ of it wholeheartedly, he’s a little startled by the extent of the effect Stiles has had on them. The extent to which they already consider Stiles part of the pack. 

That’s a problem.

It’s a problem because Deaton’s gloomy prediction of it taking weeks to track down his ‘friend’ prove distressingly accurate. It’s a problem because even though Peter has kept his thoughts to himself ever since the night Stiles was cursed, Derek can still see him watching on the few occasions when Stiles has to come out to the Hale property for something, or to meet one of the others. It’s a problem because the Alpha pack have been distressingly quiet, distressingly absent since they announced their arrival and it all feels too much like the calm before the storm. 

It’s a problem because Derek knows, now; can see, now, how much his pack needs Stiles. They need Scott, too, but there is something inside Derek that tells him Stiles would be the piece of the puzzle that has just been _missing_ since Derek took over as Alpha. Stiles would be the key to having the kind of pack he so, so desperately wants. 

In his quietest moments, Derek can even admit that Stiles would be the key to so much more that he wants. 

Derek is used to wanting. He’s used to the burning ache in his chest, the hot-sharp sizzle of his more feral instincts racing up his spine, just demanding that he _take_. He’s used to it. 

He is not used to dealing with the knowledge that he could…if he is only willing to take a few steps…he could have what he wants. Everything he wants. The idea repulses him, sickens him. He imagines what Laura would say if she knew the kind of thoughts dancing in his head, what his _parents_ would say, and it sickens him. 

But Peter is ever at his back these days, silently urging him on with knowing glances and teasing smirks. The wanting burns through his veins constantly. He wakes in the night from dreams that leave him hard and aching, desperate. He wants. He wants so badly. 

And finally, he breaks.


	6. Chapter 6

Later, he will tell himself that he didn’t mean any harm. He will tell himself that it was just a mistake. A terrible, terrible mistake; a moment of weakness…one he won’t allow himself again. 

Even in the privacy of his own mind, he will know he’s lying.

*

They manage to deal with Stiles’ _condition_ fairly well. He does, indeed, practically live at Scott’s house and that is apparently a common enough state of affairs in the summers that the sheriff doesn’t seem overly concerned. Melissa McCall covers for them, convincing Stiles’ father that everything is okay, and the sheriff doesn’t question too hard why he barely sees his son even in passing anymore.

“He’s probably enjoying the break from parenting,” Stiles quips one evening when he, Scott, and Derek are gathered at Deaton’s office for yet another update on the man’s progress in contacting this mysterious ‘friend’ who can help break the spell. Everyone politely ignores the way Stiles’ voice goes quiet and miserable, real bitterness seeping into the words and stealing the jocularity he’d been aiming for. 

Twelve days after Stiles is cursed, Deaton finally informs them that he’s made contact with someone who knows where his friend currently is (and Derek seriously has to wonder about this shaman network or whatever it is Deaton’s a part of…Derek may not be the most technologically literate person on the face of the planet, but even he has a _cell phone_ for pity’s sake!) and has agreed to get a message through. That’s the good news. The bad news is that Deaton still has no idea what kind of timeframe they’re looking at. 

His best estimate is that they can get Stiles back to normal by the end of the month. A whole month. A month of watching what they say so, so carefully and still slipping up from time to time (Scott is still the worst offender, with Erica just behind, though Stiles forgives them easily enough every time they mess up). A month of playing runaround with the sheriff, with the knowledge hanging over their heads that all he has to do is just demand that Stiles tell him the truth. A month of watching Stiles’ back like a goddamn honor guard because Chris Argent doesn’t have control of all the hunters remaining in the area and the Alpha pack is still waiting in the wings, no doubt scoping out their weaknesses. 

A whole month of trying to ignore Peter’s poisonous whispers, words that are starting to sound more and more insidiously logical and so, so tempting. Words that are starting to sound more and more like promises. A whole month of watching Stiles try to cover up how afraid he is, how afraid he _always_ is, now. 

A whole month of the worst kind of torture Derek thinks he’s ever endured. 

Because even with the taint of Stiles’ curse hanging over everything, even with the threat the Alpha pack poses teasing constantly at his senses, even with Peter and all of his Machiavellian _bullshit_ to deal with, those twelve days are some of the easiest in Derek’s recent memory. 

Stiles and Scott decide that there’s safety in numbers and even with the immediate threat of the witch that had brought them all together in the first place safely past, they don’t just withdraw from the pack as Derek had expected they would. They rarely come out to the remains of the house, true, but Scott shows up in the woods on the Hale property pretty much every time Derek takes Isaac, Erica, and Boyd out for training, Stiles trailing along beside him. More often than not, they bring Jackson and Lydia with them. 

It takes Stiles approximately thirty-seven seconds to start voicing his opinions about Derek’s training regimens and putting his own ideas out for consideration. And by this point, Derek isn’t even surprised that they turn out to be _good_ ideas, ideas that focus on and isolate the pack’s strengths and weaknesses in ways Derek hasn’t even considered. Within just a few days, Derek can feel the pack bonds changing and strengthening even more. 

Jackson and Scott are so strong—forces to be reckoned with on their own. In a true pack, they could be strong enough to give a serious challenge to an Alpha. Isaac, Erica, and Boyd aren’t far behind, and Derek watches his pack slot into place even more firmly. For the first time in a long time (for the first time _ever_ , if Derek is being honest with himself), they’re acting as a unit, acting the way they’re supposed to. 

“ _This is how it should be,_ ” he finds himself thinking one afternoon, watching as Isaac and Boyd consult Stiles over some bit of strategy they’ve come up with and listen seriously when the boy starts offering his own critiques. The thrill of want that pulses through him is familiar by now. It’s an ache he’s only started to realize has been there for a while—maybe since the pool, maybe since even before that—but it’s grown so much sharper over the past several days. Sharp enough that he can’t ignore it, can’t ever ignore it. 

It gets to the point where he lets himself pretend sometimes, indulges himself in private fantasies the way he hasn’t done in ages. He pretends that this is real, that when Stiles is cured and the threat of the Alpha pack has passed—and they will survive it, they _have_ to survive it; he won’t let himself think otherwise--Scott and Stiles (and Jackson and Lydia) won’t just walk away again. He pretends that this is only the beginning; that his Betas are only going to get stronger, their pack more cohesive. He lets himself pretend that he has years and years and years like this to look forward to, a future he’d long ago given up on. 

He imagines his childhood home risen up from the literal and proverbial ashes—different and not as grand, but filled with the same kind of happiness that he remembers and that he’d resigned himself to never experiencing again. He imagines his pack safe and happy, Scott and the others at his back; all of them there willingly and loyally and not _begrudgingly_. In his deepest and most private moments, he imagines Stiles at his side. 

His second, his equal…the two of them working in tandem, in sync. He thinks of what it would be like—that laughter and light wrapped around a core of pure steel always with him, always beside him. Stiles would lighten his darkness and his burdens while he gave that magpie-like mind clarity and focus; his bright chatter would fill up Derek’s silences while he gave back strength and steadiness. He imagines how they would push each other, test each other, each always demanding that the other be the best version of himself possible. 

On the days when the pack doesn’t gather at the Hale property, when all he has is the twisted mockery of the kind, jovial uncle Derek had loved so much lurking in the edges of his vision, he imagines what it would be like to have Stiles at his side full stop. Always at his side—his second, his equal, his _everything_. He imagines teasing smiles suffused with affection, the way their bodies might fit together, that lush mouth yielding sweetly under his. He imagines nights spent wrapped around each other, warm, and content, and safe in a way he hasn’t experienced since he was a teenager himself. He doesn’t understand the hows and the whys and the whens, doesn’t think he can pinpoint a moment when he realized or admitted that he doesn’t just want the boy for the benefits it would bring his pack, but it’s there and acknowledged now, and he can’t push it away again. He’s not even sure he wants to try. 

He lets himself pretend, but it never lasts for long. Eventually, he has to face up again to the reality that Scott, Lydia, Jackson are only associating with him because they have to, because it’s safer. _Stiles_ is only associating with him because it’s safer, because even though he doesn’t trust Derek, Derek has saved his life enough times (and vice versa) that there’s some kind of grudging respect there. They’re not friends. They’re barely allies, and Derek suspects what alliance does exist is mostly a result of Stiles’ particular brand of ruthless practicality. That reality hurts a little more every time it asserts himself. 

And every time, the thought that he could change it, could _make_ his imaginings into the truth lingers just a little bit longer. 

It all comes to a head two weeks after Stiles is cursed. 

There’s nothing particularly noteworthy about the day. Scott and Stiles show up for training, the same as they have been doing recently. This time they are sans Lydia and Jackson. Stiles mutters something about a ‘date night’ (though it’s barely noon), a sour look passing over his face. Derek can feel his hackles rise in irritation—and he’s honestly not sure if it’s over Jackson blowing off a training session or the further evidence of how hung up Stiles still is on Lydia. He forces it aside, though, and Stiles eventually loses the pinched, pensive look on his face when he realizes that Derek is incorporating several suggestions that he had made only a few days ago. 

Training goes well, and Derek allows a small ember of satisfaction to flare to life in his chest. They are not ready to face down a pack of Alphas…not by a long shot. He’s starting to think, though, that they might have a chance of coming out of this alive. By the time the sky is starting to darken, his Betas are thoroughly exhausted, leaning on each other companionably as they tromp back through the woods to where their cars are all parked at the ruins of the house. 

Scott and Stiles trail behind the group somewhat, whispering furiously as Scott texts something on his phone. Derek finds himself dropping back towards them, suspicion curling like smoke in his mind. So help him, if Scott is still trying to salvage some kind of relationship with Allison Argent…

“Dude, I’m sorry! I forgot Mom needs me to pick her up tonight…she gets off-shift in, like, twenty minutes,” Scott says as Derek falls into step just ahead of them. He hears Stiles sigh heavily. 

“It’s fine, it’s fine. We’ll just pick her up and then I’ll drop you guys off at your house,” Stiles replies, a thread of weary irritation in his voice. 

At that, Derek gives up even the pretense of not listening to their conversation and turns, walking backward to keep pace with Isaac, Erica, and Boyd. “What’s going on?” He tries to ask. He really does. It comes out like a demand, though, and Stiles rolls his eyes heavenward. 

“Nothing…I’m gonna go back to my place for a few days. Dad’s working doubles all this week and I want to make sure he’s not filling up the ‘fridge with bacon and ice cream. And sleep in my own bed. Oh _God_ , I miss my bed. I mean, don’t get me wrong...I’m grateful that Mrs. McCall is putting me up and everything, but I haven’t fit on the rollaway cot since I was ten and the couch is lumpy as hell.”

“I like the couch,” Scott says, sounding offended. Stiles huffs out a laugh.

“Yeah, ‘cause you’re not sleeping on it.” 

Derek narrows his eyes, coming to a stop and forcing the boys to halt as well. “Alone?” he questions. Stiles throws his hands into the air in a typical, flailing movement. 

“Oh my God, I’m not having this conversation with you, too! Yes. Alone. It’s fine, okay? Dad’ll barely be around and when he is, he’ll be eating or sleeping. Even if we do get a chance to talk, not like _he’s_ gonna accidentally order me to do something dangerous.” Stiles slants a look at Scott, who blushes and looks apologetic. Derek resolves immediately to get the full story out of one of them. “Look, it’s been two weeks. Even Scott and I aren’t usually joined at the hip _that_ long. Dad’s gonna start getting suspicious soon. I just want to—“ Stiles breaks off, suddenly, as though he just realized he’s about to say something he doesn’t want them to hear, and then presses doggedly on. “I promise I’ll call someone if I need to go out for something, and you know what? Why am I even negotiating with you? You’re not the boss of me!” Stiles ends his rant abruptly, crossing his arms over his chest. 

Derek regards him silently for a moment. “Technically, right now _everyone’s_ the boss of you,” he mutters, and immediately wants to call the words back when Stiles flinches, hurt flashing through his eyes for a brief instant before he reins himself back in. Derek clenches his jaw for a moment before forcing himself to relax. “I could drive you home,” he says. Judging by the startled looks Scott and Stiles exchange, they’re as surprised by the offer as he is.

Stiles’ eyebrow climbs a little towards his hairline and he and Scott exchange another look. “It’d save time,” Scott hazards after a moment. “I can bring the jeep tomorrow morning…we could just hang out at your place.”

Stiles hesitates a moment more, an odd expression flitting across his face. “Sure, whatever,” he says. There’s a tired quality to his voice that Scott quite obviously misses, but sets Derek’s teeth on edge. Stiles starts off again, quickly catching up to Erica and Isaac. Scott follows, leaving Derek to bring up the rear, watching Stiles thoughtfully as he walks. 

Peter is standing on the ruined porch as the six of them break the tree line. Stiles and Scott pointedly ignore him, heads close together as Stiles rattles off a list of instructions for the proper care and handling of ‘his baby’ and passes the keys over with reluctance. He heads over to the jeep to grab a backpack stuffed with clothes out of the backseat. When he heads over to lean against the passenger side door of the Camaro, Peter straightens sharply. Peter’s eyes find Derek’s unerringly, and Derek’s stomach twists unpleasantly at the keen light in them. He can almost hear his uncle’s voice in his head, hear those damning, damning words that have been circling in his brain for two weeks, now. 

“ _Is there any bad side to Stiles being one of us?_ ” 

It would be easy. It would be so, so easy. So easy to turn every desire and fantasy and dream he has into reality. 

He turns away from his uncle’s gaze before he can see Peter’s lips curl into that damn knowing smirk, ignoring the feeling that he’s just backed down from some challenge. He doesn’t look at Stiles as he walks around to the driver’s side, just slides in behind the wheel and leans over to unlock the passenger door. Stiles slips into the seat without a word, pulling his backpack into his lap and staring resolutely out the window.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello,
> 
> So, this is the first bit of a really long-ass chapter. I didn't want the sections to be "six pages, six pages, six pages, and then bam! Fifteen pages!" and this seems like a good place to break off and warn that the rest of this part will be bringing the Non-con warning on this story into play. I'm stopping short of portraying a rape in this, but yes, there's nonconsensual sexual contact going on in the next part, so if such things disturb you (although I should think anyone who's been reading thus far should be able to guess pretty easily where I'm going with this), I suggest you skip the next chapter. 
> 
> I think I'll have the next part up sometime tonight, but if not, definitely tomorrow evening. Thank you for reading!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, just one more warning. 
> 
> You see that NonCon tag at the top of this story? That's happening in this bit. Granted, it's non-consensual in the sense that one party is incapable of giving anything BUT enthusiastic consent...but it is NonCon. 
> 
> Apart from that, I sincerely thank everyone who has commented and left kudos (and revenge scenarios, and offers of souls). I don't often write such dark material (angsty, sure, but not truly dark) so I'm kind of regarding this as an exercise. I'm glad people find this compelling enough to keep reading even when the subject matter gets uncomfortable.

They drive in silence for several minutes, and every so often, Derek can’t help but glance over at the boy’s profile. At the curve of his throat, the arch of his neck. At the way the setting sun is painting his skin with golden, glowing light. Easy. It would be so easy to just pull over and tell Stiles to hold still while he sinks his teeth into the juncture of his neck and shoulder. Easy to make him tilt his head in invitation. Easy to go so far beyond just giving Stiles the bite.

It would be so easy, and God, Laura would be so disappointed in him. 

“What?” Stiles asks suddenly, breaking him out of his thoughts. He glances over to find Stiles watching him with an irritated furrow on his brow, eyes narrowed slightly. 

“Nothing,” Derek grunts immediately, internally wincing at how defensive he sounds. 

“You’re doing your creepy staring thing again. Seriously, I can feel the serial killer vibes all the way over here. I’d just like to point out, no one _made_ you offer to drive me home and—“

“Are you all right?” Again, he means to ask. He means it to sound genuine, an actual inquiry as to Stiles’ wellbeing…because he doesn’t like the way Stiles had looked in the woods for that split second before he got his masks back up. He means it to be a concerned question. 

He’s well aware it comes out like an accusation. It seems to be a talent he has. 

Stiles reels back a little, the muscles in his neck and shoulders twitching as though the sudden interruption is yanking him onto a new train of thought physically as well as mentally. “Huh?” he says stupidly, cocking his head in a curiously birdlike movement. 

Derek grits his teeth, hands tightening momentarily on the steering wheel. “Are. You. All. Right?” he bites out again. Then, because it’s clear that an actual expression of concern from him is just going to short-circuit Stiles’ brain, he brings them back onto familiar territory. “It’s a yes or no question.” 

“Wow, was that as painful as it looked?” Stiles asks sarcastically, and it doesn’t escape Derek’s notice that he doesn’t answer the question. 

That seems to be a talent _Stiles_ has.

“Stiles.” He slows the car at the four-way stop that they will use to turn onto the main road back into town. There’s no one at any of the other stop signs and he uses the opportunity to turn and glare at Stiles. Stiles glares straight back, mutinously, before blowing out a gusty sigh. 

“I’m fine,” he says, his voice dark, and Derek doesn’t even need to listen to his pulse to know he’s lying through his teeth. 

“Clearly,” Derek deadpans. “That’s why you’re trying to hide from Scott, right?” 

For a moment, Stiles looks like he’s going to protest, like he’s going to keep arguing. Only a moment, though. After that he just…deflates. He slumps back against the passenger side door, looking pale and exhausted. 

“I just want this to be over,” he admits quietly. “I don’t want you guys to have to babysit me, and I don’t want to have to worry that Scott is gonna slip up and tell me to go play in traffic or something--and oh my God I _wish_ that wasn’t an actual possibility with him--and I want to go _home_.”

“ _I want my dad_ ,” he doesn’t say. 

“ _I’m scared_ ,” he doesn’t say.

“ _I don’t know how much longer I can deal with this_ ,” he doesn’t say. 

He doesn’t say any of that, but Derek hears it loud and clear. He looks away from the worn-down, defeated look in Stiles’ eyes, and puts the car back into gear. He continues on the way to the Stilinski house, the quiet pressing down on them like a living thing. He drives, his mind racing as they draw closer to their destination. The sheriff’s car isn’t in the driveway when he pulls up to Stiles’ house, and he hears Stiles sigh softly as he opens the car door. The boy scrambles out of the vehicle, hitching his backpack up onto his shoulder. 

“Thanks for the ride, I guess,” Stiles tosses out, sketching an awkward sort of wave in the air with one hand. Derek drums his fingers on the steering wheel, watching as Stiles walks up towards his front door. His steps are heavy, somehow, his shoulders slumped and head hanging as though his neck doesn’t have the strength to keep it up. Derek swallows convulsively. 

He won’t force the bite on Stiles. He _won’t_. 

But…if Stiles wants it? If Stiles is willing? There’s nothing wrong with that…

And if Stiles is not in the best frame of mind to be making decisions like that--if he’s too tired and frightened to be thinking clearly…well, the end result would make up for taking a little advantage of the situation, wouldn’t it? He’s not considering doing what Peter wants…but it’s not the same, if Stiles asks for it. It’s not. 

He’s jumping out of the car before he’s really finished with the thought, following Stiles up to the porch where he’s fumbling with his keys. Stiles jumps when he hears Derek’s boots hit the porch floorboards, whirling around and barely catching his bag as it slides off his shoulder. 

“Der—holy shit, what?” he asks, one hand going to rest in comic exaggeration on his chest. 

“I need to talk to you,” Derek says without preamble. Stiles rolls his eyes a little. 

“Of course you do. ‘Cause it’s not like we just spent almost half an hour in a car together.” Stiles watches him silently for a few seconds, before shrugging his acquiescence. “C’mon, then,” he says, turning back to the door to grasp the keys that are still dangling in the lock. 

Derek follows him into the darkened, silent house. Some of the tension seems to lessen in Stiles’ shoulders as soon as he crosses the threshold, and he rubs his eyes tiredly. The backpack hits the floor with a thump, a few old-looking books and a yellow legal pad covered with Stiles’ scrawl spilling out onto the floor. Stiles heads immediately for the kitchen, leaving Derek to trail silently behind him. He makes a beeline for the fridge, yanking it open and scowling fiercely at whatever it is he sees inside. He closes it with a sigh, reaches up to massage the back of his neck with one hand. 

“So what did you want, Derek?” he asks quietly. 

Derek takes a deep breath, and though he’ll never admit it out loud, he’s nervous. The buzzing, pulsing sense of want is burning through him again, more powerful than it’s ever been now that there’s actually a chance of satisfying it. He _wants_ this. He wants it so badly, and he has to get this right. 

“If—“ he starts slowly, and finds his eyes drawn to the long line of Stiles’ throat, the soft throb of Stiles’ pulse. “If there was a way to break this curse now, tonight--if you didn’t have to wait to see if Deaton’s friend can help…would you take it?” he asks lowly. 

Stiles goes still. Still and quiet, absolutely frozen for an instant before he slowly turns away from the fridge. He leans back against the kitchen counter, arms wrapped around his middle, those honey-brown eyes boring into Derek’s. He swallows roughly, gnawing on his lower lip. 

“You’re talking about biting me,” he says, and it’s not a question. Derek is a bit startled…but he knows he shouldn’t be. Stiles has always been quick on the uptake. 

“Yes,” he says seriously. “The change would break the spell and—“

“Yeah, I know, I know,” Stiles interrupts, raking one hand back over his hair. “Deaton told me that first day at his office,” he adds when Derek isn’t able to keep his surprise off his face this time. “He, uh, he wanted me to know all my options. I mean—not that I just assumed you’d want to…I mean, Deaton said you’d do it, but I didn’t think you’d want him talking for you…I mean—“

“Stiles.” It’s Derek’s turn to interrupt now. “Deaton was right.” He tries to keep the hope out of his voice, tries to stay neutral, but his teeth are practically aching in his mouth, his blood singing in his veins with the need to just _take_ what he’s been wanting so intensely. “I didn’t want you to have to make that decision if Deaton’s friend was going to be able to get here fast, but now…if you—if you want, I can end this thing for you right now.” 

Stiles is tempted. He can see it, in the sharpening of Stiles’ eyes, in the sudden tensing of his shoulders. He can see it, and it’s all he can do not to change right there and then and surge across the distance that separates them. Stiles bites his lip again, closing his eyes briefly. 

“Derek…dude.” He laughs a little, a grim humorless sound. “I don’t…” He shakes his head, and Derek is disconcerted to realize that his hands are shaking a little. “I _can’t_ ,” he says finally. “I can’t believe you’d offer...thank you, thank you for even thinking about it. But…I can’t do something like that just because I’m afraid of what will happen if I don’t. I don’t—I don’t want to be forced into it. Hell, I don’t want _you_ to be forced into it. I mean, I know we’re not friends or anything, I know you don’t want me in your pack.” Stiles breaks off his ramble, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes and shaking his head back and forth. 

Derek listens dully, and he can’t help flinching at Stiles’ last few sentences. No idea. He has no idea just how much the thought of forcing him into it has crossed Derek’s mind of late. He has no idea just how desperately Derek _does_ want him in the pack. 

Has no idea how desperately Derek just wants him. 

Disappointment knifes through him, sharp and hot. He clenches his jaw hard enough to hurt, forcing his expression to stay neutral. “All right,” he says evenly, as evenly as he can when he wants to deny everything Stiles just said; when the ball of want is pulsing heavy and _sickening_ in his chest. “Just…the offer’s on the table,” he says, when everything in him is crying _taketaketake_.

Stiles nods gravely, his lips twitching into a brief sort of smile. “Thanks,” he says seriously, and his voice seems a bit warmer. 

Derek turns to leave, heading back out towards the front hall. He’s not paying much attention to where he’s going, too busy trying to maintain control that feels far too fragile, and as he enters the foyer, he nearly trips over the detritus that had spilled from Stiles’ backpack. On autopilot, he bends down to shuffle the mess into some kind of order…and freezes as he sees a crude sketch of the Alpha pack’s symbol at the top of the legal pad. He frowns slightly, scanning the page of hastily written notes. 

Most of it is gibberish to him. Stiles may be a hell of a researcher, but he is also the only person who actually knows how his research methods work. There are what looks like map coordinates listed in haphazard columns, broken sentences, and lists of names and phrases that make absolutely no sense. 

What the hell is a ‘BloodSlayer_627’? 

“Oh…sorry about that,” Stiles says from behind him. The boy darts around to his side, reaching for the notes and books gathered in Derek’s hands. “I’ve been trying to cross-reference sightings of this Alpha pack over the past couple years…see if I can figure out where they’re from or how many there are. Anything, really.” 

Derek raises an eyebrow, staring pointedly at the list of ridiculous names at the bottom of the page. When he looks up again, there’s a blush painting Stiles’ cheeks. “Yeeeah, that’s a list of the members of my guild on the Dark Realms server. It’s an RPG I joined and…and you know, that’s not important. What _is_ important is most of the guys in this guild are hunters. I mean that, or they’re nerds leading **very** vivid and violent fantasy lives, the details of which are disturbingly useful in the Whedon-worthy supernatural drama that is our lives.” He smiles a little. “They use the chat forums to pass information around the hunter community…really useful intel. They think I’m a hunter based out of Toronto.”

Derek feels his other eyebrow climbing. Stiles coughs nervously.

“I’ve gotten some decent contacts out of it…I should have a heads up if anyone starts adding new nasties to their bags of tricks or if any big groups start heading our way again. This guy…BloodSlayer? Apparently he’s faced off against the Alpha pack before. Or _an_ Alpha pack, anyway…are there more than one? Scott and I were trying to figure out how that power structure would even work. I think it has to function like the old pirate crews…the whole ‘first among equals’ thing coming into play. ‘Cause they have to have a leader…” Stiles trails off, caught up in the rapid-fire machinations of his thoughts and Derek finds himself just staring. 

Stiles has clearly been doing this for a while, now. He’s clearly been doing it even since he was cursed—researching, planning. For God’s sake, he’s been _networking_ \--making contacts with hunters and pumping them for information even though it’s as good as painting a target on his back if any of them discover he’s using what they tell him to protect werewolves. Derek knows—he **knows** \--that it’s mostly for Scott’s sake. Possibly, it’s even for Jackson’s sake as well now. 

But it’s also for Derek’s pack. 

For Boyd and Erica and Isaac, because Stiles does care about them, does want to help them. Maybe it’s even a little bit for Derek…because whatever else has passed between them, Stiles has never actually turned his back on Derek when Derek needed his help. 

This. This is what he wants, what he could _have_ \--this cleverness, and care, and ridiculous bravery. 

With the want and the disappointment of Stiles’ refusal still blistering through him, tight and painful in his chest, he’s not strong enough to just turn away and leave. He just needs to _see_ if there’s any chance he can have what he wants. Any chance at all. If there’s not, then he’ll let it go…he swears he’ll let it go and just learn to live with this godawful desire, like he’s learned to live with every other pain in his life. If Stiles rejects him—there’s no reason Stiles even has to remember it.

Once. 

He’ll let himself slip just this once. 

The others have all used the curse against Stiles…multiple times. He’s just going to let himself do it once. 

He ignores the part of him—the part of him shrieking with his mother’s, his father’s, his sister’s voices—that screams that the others had all done it _accidentally_ , damn it, and lets the books and notes slide out of his hands. He catches Stiles by the wrist when the boy goes to duck down and pick the books up off the floor. Stiles looks up at him, startled, and before he can think too hard about it, before he can listen to his better judgment, Derek yanks the boy against his chest. 

Once. Just this once. 

“Hey!” Stiles gasps out, and it’s all he has time for before Derek kisses him, just the way he’s been wanting (aching) to do for the past two weeks. For longer than that. There is one perfect, perfect instant when it’s just like Derek had pictured it, when Stiles slots against him just as closely as though he was meant to be there, when the warm softness of his mouth just melts against Derek’s, sweet as he imagined it would be. Derek can feel every part of himself practically sigh with pleasure, soaking into the rightness of the moment. 

Then Stiles starts trying to pull away. 

Struggling in his arms, frantic and flailing, his heart pounding not in excitement, but in fear. He throws himself backwards, away from Derek until only Derek’s grip on his wrist is connecting them. He starts tugging insistently at his hand, eyes wide and his pulse jackrabbiting in his chest. 

“Whoa! Whoa, whoa, time out! No! What was that…why the hell…what the actual _fuck_ , Derek?!” Stiles shouts, jerking his wrist with increasing desperation. His scent, his eyes, his body…there is nothing there but fear and anger, no hint of welcome, no spark of arousal or excitement. 

Well. 

Derek has his answer, then.

He has his answer, and he knows Stiles’ wishes now. He isn’t interested in the bite—not even to save himself from the curse. He isn’t interested in Derek. 

“Stop,” he says, voice low and rough. “Be quiet and stop moving.” He closes his eyes, not wanting to see the flash of green in Stiles’. Instantly, though, the body in front of him goes still—though if anything, Stiles’ heart starts to pound harder. Terrified. He’s terrified, and he’ll never be Derek’s. Never belong to the pack. He doesn’t want to. 

Derek opens his mouth, the words dancing on the tip of his tongue. _Forget this. Just go up to your room and forget all about this._

Once. 

He just wants to know what it would be like once. 

He curls his hand more firmly around Stiles’ wrist, his thumb brushing over the thrumming pulse point soothingly. He steps closer, days and weeks of fraught desire pounding through him and drowning out everything else. Once. Just once. He lays his other hand against Stiles’ neck, cupping his jaw gently. 

“You want this,” he says. The words feel like they’re being dragged out of his throat over broken glass, but he can’t stop them. “Just for tonight, you want this. Want me.” 

There is an instant when all he can see in Stiles’ eyes is shocked, furious betrayal. It cuts him like a knife, but then the poisonous green light flashes across Stiles’ irises. The boy’s eyes squeeze shut, his whole body shuddering and his head thrashing back and forth for a moment. Then his eyes snap back open, zeroing in on Derek with glittering, hungry need. Stiles surges against him, his mouth crashing up against Derek’s forcefully. 

He’s clumsy, inexpert…too much teeth and not enough tongue. For all that, it’s everything Derek has been wanting and—with a tiny stab of dark guilt—he lets himself just go with it. He lets go of Stiles’ wrist, and the boy’s arms immediately come up to wind around his neck, pressing so eagerly against Derek’s body. _Now_ the warm spice of arousal hits Derek’s senses, and when he nudges his thigh against the vee of Stiles’ legs, he finds him already hard. Derek groans softly, tilting Stiles’ head into a better angle as he takes control of the kiss and Stiles just lets him, clutches at his shoulders as he ruts helplessly against Derek’s thigh. 

It’s desperate; inelegant and messy as Derek pulls back from the kiss to lean down and bite gently at Stiles’ Adam’s apple. Not hard enough to bruise, not hard enough to break the skin, but Stiles gasps anyway, throwing his head back for easier access. Derek obliges, pulling Stiles more tightly against himself, holding him like he’s something amazing and cherished. Stiles twists in his arms suddenly, stumbling backwards to start dragging him towards the stairs. He follows happily, the two of them lurching clumsily towards Stiles’ room as he stops them every few seconds to press his lips against any part of Stiles he can get to. His own excitement spikes through him, pooling low in his gut. He presses his nose into the crook of Stiles’ neck, relishing the way their scents are starting to mingle. 

Pretending for the moment that it’s _real_. 

Stiles lets him push him down onto the bed when they reach the boy’s room, arches under him—every move unstudied and utterly instinctive, and all the more wanton for it—begging breathlessly for Derek to just touch him. He’s trembling, his skin already slick with sweat when Derek slides a hand up under his many layers, spreads his palm against the skin of his belly—soft skin over surprisingly firm, lean muscle—before dragging teasingly lower. He’s nearly mindless with need, tugging impatiently at his clothes, at Derek’s clothes and Derek knows that there’s nothing Stiles will deny him tonight. 

He twists his hand, cupping Stiles’ hardness through the jeans he’s still wearing and grinding the heel of his palm against it. Stiles throws his head back, unintentionally baring his throat and _God_ he wants to mark that skin, bite down until the skin breaks, until he tastes blood, until Stiles is bound to him—to the pack—forever. He can’t, though. There’s just enough sense left in him that he knows he has to be careful, knows he can’t leave any evidence of what he’s doing. 

That thought crashes over him, stills his motions for a moment as shame curls thickly in his gut. He grits his teeth against it, starts to pull back, but Stiles just follows him—his hands tugging demandingly, his mouth seemingly everywhere at once. Derek leans down, setting his teeth against the base of Stiles’ throat again as he strokes firmly against Stiles’ erection, still trapped in the confines of his boxers and jeans. He’s seized with a sudden urge to make Stiles just absolutely come undone beneath him, to see him panting and begging, to know that he’s the one doing it--and he needs it _now_. He lets his teeth scrape against Stiles’ neck, lets Stiles’ hips push frantically up against the pressure of his hand. He ignores everything but the sounds Stiles is making, the way he’s moving against him—ignores his own frenzied need, the way he’s straining uncomfortably in his own jeans. 

He keeps going, Stiles’ hands fluttering over his back and clutching him closer, keeps going until those hands suddenly dig into his shoulders and Stiles cries out, loud and long as wet warmth soaks through his jeans against Derek’s hand. He slumps against the pillows, his shirt rucked up and his mouth a dark slash of deep red, lips just a little swollen. He looks wrecked. Utterly wrecked, and Derek could do anything. Could strip them down so they’re skin to skin, could keep going all night if he wants. He could flip Stiles over onto his stomach and take him, could ease him down onto his knees and have his mouth.

He nearly comes himself at the thought of that mouth wrapped around him, swollen lips stretched and spit-slick, while he guided Stiles through it. 

“ _That’s it, sweetie…just like that._ ” 

The memory drifts through his mind unbidden. A different body under his, different hands tracing over his shoulders, a different voice in his ear—smoky and sweet as honey, the darkness in the words expertly hidden. It’s like a shock of cold water running through his veins. He reels back, nearly throwing himself off the bed. Stiles makes a soft sound of displeasure, lunging up after him, and _God_ , what is he doing?

“No!” he says sharply when Stiles moves to kiss him again. “No, don’t.” Stiles freezes on the bed, the green light flaring in his eyes as he just stares at Derek. He’s still flushed and sweaty, his pupils blown so wide his eyes are practically black. “Don’t,” Derek says again, raking one hand back through his own sweat-dampened hair. 

What is he doing?

“Just…just go get yourself cleaned up,” he says, and closes his eyes when Stiles doesn’t even speak, just slides immediately off the bed and slips out the door. His footsteps pad down the hall toward the bathroom. Derek breathes out shakily, staring at the rumpled mess they made of the bed. The smell of sweat and sex is still heavy in the air, and shame twists harder in him when he realizes he’s breathing it in deeply, fucking savoring it. He’s still hard and aching, can still feel the warmth of Stiles’ body in his arms. 

He clenches his hands into fists, feeling his nails lengthen into claws, his teeth elongate into fangs. Stiles reappears a few moments later, slipping into the room nearly silently. He’s stripped out of his clothes, exchanging them for a fresh shirt and pair of boxers. Derek rises from the bed, well aware that he’s half-changed, that his eyes are glowing red as he barely hangs on to his human side. Stiles inhales sharply, his eyes widening as the _need_ flashes in his eyes again—the keen desire Derek wishes for so badly. Stiles moves toward him again, already reaching for him…and it’s not real. 

The magnitude of what he’s done—what he’d been _about_ to do—hits him, and he nearly chokes on the bitterness that rises in his throat. He nearly chokes on it…but he can’t stop himself from drawing Stiles back into his arms when the boy comes, can’t help wrapping himself around Stiles’ body. He breathes in once more, telling himself he needs to remember this, needs to remember the way Stiles feels right now, the way he smells, because this will not happen again. 

Once. Only once. 

It doesn’t change what he’s done, and he knows he can’t be forgiven for it, but it’s only once. He’s not going to do what Peter wants him to. He’s not going to be like…he’s not going to be like _Kate_. He pulls Stiles tightly against him, kissing him one more time. 

Once.

“Don’t remember this,” he whispers against the boy’s lips. “Think I left after you said no to the bite. Just go to sleep and don’t remember any of this when you wake up.”

He catches Stiles’ weight easily as he goes limp, breathing deep and even, his hands falling away from Derek’s shoulders. Derek lifts him gently onto his bed, just laying him down on top of the blanket. It’s a warm night and he needs to get out of here. He needs to leave. 

Once. It was only once, just a single moment of weakness. It was a terrible, terrible mistake and he won’t let himself slip again. He won’t. 

He doesn’t bother with the door, just unlatches Stiles’ window and slides out onto the slope of the roof. As he gathers himself to leap down onto the ground, he glances over his shoulder at Stiles one more time, drinking in the sight. This will not happen again. 

The words already feel like a lie.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello!
> 
> Sorry for the wait on this. I've decided I've got way too many fills I'm working on right now...I seriously need to cut down on some, and FINISH these suckers. Good news is, this one should only be three or four more chapters, I think. 
> 
>  
> 
> I would sincerely like to thank everyone who has commented, bookmarked, and left kudos on this work. It means a lot to me that others enjoy this, and of course, I always love to hear what people are thinking! Thank you so much for taking the time to comment.

He waits to be found out; waits for Scott to come storming onto the property in a cloud of righteous fury, waits for Lydia and Jackson to cut off any contact, waits for Deaton even to call him out for being the worst kind of bastard. 

He waits for Stiles' disgust and hatred--for his fear. He braces himself for it, for all the consequences of what he's done, unable to really believe that even a curse as powerful as the one Stiles is under can just erase the memory of what Derek has done from Stiles' mind. He waits for the condemnation to come down on him like a fist...but it doesn't. 

The day after he--well, the day _after_ \--Stiles and Scott appear at the house for yet another workout session with the rest of the pack, and Stiles meets his gaze unflinchingly. His manner is as open as ever, his voice steady, and there is not so much as a hint of fear about him. Well, at least none directed at Derek. 

There is still the taint of exhausted anxiety wrapped around Stiles like a shroud. Derek sees it in the slump of his shoulders when he thinks no one is looking, in the brittle edges to the grins he shoots Erica and Isaac, in the way he holds himself tight and tense--not a lot, not so much that the others seem to notice...but Derek sees it--whenever someone speaks to him. Stiles has been holding himself together throughout all of this better than Derek would have thought possible, but there are cracks starting to show. There are cracks starting to show in Stiles' calm, but it quickly becomes obvious that he really and truly has no recollection of what Derek had done. 

There is a brief moment of awkwardness on the crumbling remains of the front porch. A softly whispered 'hey, about what we were talking about last night...seriously, thanks' and a sheepish shuffle of feet before Stiles bounds off to talk to the others while they are waiting for Jackson and Lydia to show up. That is all. The hatred doesn't come, the disgust doesn't come, the fear and the rage and the condemnation doesn't come. Stiles doesn't remember. 

For a moment, all Derek can feel is a sickening swoop of relief. Almost as soon as the relief registers, though, it's swept aside by shame. The same dark, icy shame and guilt that has been coiling in his belly like a snake since he left Stiles' room. He can't believe he let it happen, can’t believe he let himself go that far. The guilt claws at him, piling onto a thousand other dark thoughts and feelings and self-recriminations and drowning them all out because…

Because, goddamn it, he can’t stop the memories from playing out in his mind over and over again. He can’t stop thinking about the way Stiles had felt in his arms. The way he’d writhed under Derek’s hands. The warmth of his skin. He can’t stop thinking of the desire that had darkened Stiles’ eyes—false as it was—and the sweet feeling of that mouth against his. Not even the black stab of shame, the whispers in his mind that hiss _Kate’s_ name accusingly and remind him over and over of what she’d done to _him_ , is enough to erase the desperate, desperate longing to touch Stiles like that again. 

It will not happen, though. He swears to himself that it won’t, that he won’t take advantage of the boy like that again. He rolls his shoulders slowly as the sound of Jackson’s car coming up the drive finally reaches him, as if he could physically dispel the guilt that is sitting so heavily on him. He can handle this. He resolutely does not even look at Stiles as Jackson slides out of his car—sans Lydia today, Derek is surprised to note—and joins the other Betas with his usual cool aloofness. 

He throws himself into training with his usual abandon, his entire focus narrowing to the familiar rhythms of physical exertion. He needs it, needs the distraction, needs to just turn his thoughts _off_ for a little bit. The others are getting better and better, and he finds that he actually does have to concentrate to fend them off. Warm, fierce pride tries to well up in his chest as his Betas prove again and again that they’re learning how to work together, work as a unit, and when Scott and Boyd finally manage to put him on the ground once, he lets himself indulge in it for just a moment, his mouth twitching into something resembling a smile as he stares up at them. 

From somewhere to their left, he hears Stiles whooping in excitement, shouting congratulations to both Scott and Boyd. Boyd’s eyes dart over to where Stiles is standing and a pleased little chuff escapes his lips, even as Scott vanishes from Derek’s line of sight. A moment later, he hears the unmistakable slap of flesh hitting flesh in a friendly high-five. Derek hardly even notices the jab of want that pulses through him, too used to it by now to find it remarkable. It flares and fades, and he licks his lips as he rolls into a sitting position on the ground, drawing one knee up towards his chest. 

“Good,” he grunts, taking Boyd’s offered hand and letting the young man pull him to his feet. The almost-smile settles into a more familiar, feral smirk as he cracks his neck from side to side. “Now try and do it again,” he growls, letting a little more of the Alpha bleed through his human face. 

They don’t manage to do it again. 

But they do come close a couple of times. 

By the time Derek deems the workout almost over for the day, the Betas are a mess of sore muscles, rapidly healing cuts and bruises, and more than a few friendly smiles. They gather around the back of Stiles’ jeep, passing around water bottles from a cooler he and Scott brought with them, trash-talking each other with happy, teasing voices and pushing and jostling at each other like pups. 

Erica and Boyd are looking more settled than they have since their run-in with the Alpha pack, and even Jackson’s smirk doesn’t look as mean as it usually does. Scott and Isaac are leaning companionably against each other, while Erica throws an arm around Stiles’ waist and draws him into the thick of things, resting her head on his shoulder. Stiles and Boyd start critiquing everyone’s strategy, going over successes and missteps with the gravity of two generals drawing up battle plans, and the conversation dies down so everyone can listen intently. Even Scott. Even Jackson…and though he’s been getting better about being around Stiles, this is the first time he hasn’t been visibly uncomfortable around the other boy. It makes Derek’s breath catch in his throat for a moment as he hovers just on the edges of the little group. For just a bare instant, he’s reminded so strongly of a hundred, a thousand other such gatherings that he had participated in with his own family that his throat aches. 

His eyes drift from face to face, drinking in the open, relaxed body language; the eager, intent light in their eyes as they listen. They subtly shift around until Stiles is folded into the center of the group…the way Derek’s father had always ended up at the center of every gathering. He watches them, reveling in the feel of closeness and camaraderie and _pack_. After a few minutes, Stiles starts winding down, and Derek takes a soft—not hesitant, he is _not_ hesitant—step closer to the group. 

Isaac turns toward him immediately, Erica and Boyd quickly following. Scott and Jackson exchange a brief look with Stiles, but even they turn to look at him with curiosity rather than hostility. He had been planning to throw everyone into one more round before sending them home, but he suddenly finds himself loathe to break the moment with more serious training. 

And if the sight of his pack and Stiles so happy and carefree lightens the bitter, bitter guilt roiling through him a little bit, that’s no one’s business but his own.

He tilts his head slightly, an idea forming in his mind. He doesn’t think of the memories attached to it, doesn’t let the thought of all the times he and Laura had done this as children even fully form. That way lies only more pain, and he just wants this peaceful mood to last a little longer. “Last exercise for today,” he says, and ignores the way everyone deflates a little, the way Stiles openly scoffs and rolls his eyes. “Isaac,” he continues, and the boy immediately straightens, tilting his chin upwards. “You have a ten minute head start…see how long you can stay ahead of everyone. No going past the creek on the east side of our territory.” 

Everyone just stares at him for a moment, as if they expect him to suddenly change his mind or declare that he was just testing them. Only a moment, though, and then Isaac, Erica, and Boyd exchange small, pleased little smiles, and Isaac’s eyes start glinting with mischief. He whips around and races for the treeline, transforming as he goes, and Erica’s smile blossoms into a predatory grin. It’s a look he hasn’t seen on her in weeks. 

The others pace around a bit for the prescribed ten minutes, even Scott and Jackson starting to look a little excited as Isaac’s head start winds down—though Jackson is considerably better at hiding his emotions than Scott. With a couple of minutes left, though, Scott grabs Stiles’ elbow and draws him aside a little. Derek is lounging on the stairs leading up to the porch, nowhere near far enough away from them to avoid eavesdropping. 

“You wanna just go home? I can probably get Jackson to drive me,” Scott says quietly. Stiles lets out a short, sharp little bark of laughter, and Scott shrugs ruefully. “Okay, maybe not, but I could walk.” 

Stiles shifts from foot to foot, gnawing on his lower lip in a way that Derek tells himself he doesn’t find distracting. He darts an uneasy glance at Derek, and the house, where Peter has been doing God-knows-what the whole time they’ve been training. “Nah, it’s okay,” Stiles says finally. “I’ll wait ‘til you get back. Maybe we can go get some pizza later tonight? See if Isaac and the others want to come?” 

Scott throws a glance over at where the others are chomping at the proverbial bit to get after Isaac. He looks torn, looking back over his shoulder at the house. “Are you _sure_?” he asks again. “I don’t have to go with them. I mean…Peter…” He’s clearly trying to avoid bringing up the spell. 

Stiles stares hard at the ground for a few heartbeats. Derek tries not to watch him, tries to pretend he’s not straining with everything in him to hear what Stiles will say. Part of him wants the boy to agree, to just get in his vehicle and leave, so that Derek won’t have to sit here alone with him. Won’t have to think about how he knows what the dip of Stiles’ navel feels like under his fingertips, or how red his lips get when they’ve been kissed and bitten. Won’t have to think about the terrible, terrible way he’d betrayed Stiles’ fragile trust.

Part of him desperately wants the boy to stay, so that Derek can pretend just a little while longer. Pretend that the pack really is as whole and healthy as it seems right now. That he can have days and weeks and months and years just like this. Pretend that he knows the feel of Stiles’ body because that knowledge was freely and lovingly offered, and not stolen away because of the fucking curse. 

“It’s okay,” Stiles repeats. “It’s good for you guys to go do…wolfy stuff together. And I can handle Uncle Creepy McCreeper. Derek won’t let him—you know, _do_ anything.” He makes a vague gesture in the air with one hand, his words braver than his tone. Scott takes them at face-value, though, and claps his friend on the shoulder. He races over to the other three just as Erica shouts time, and the Betas streak off in the direction Isaac had taken. 

Derek holds himself very still, just breathing. Stiles watches Scott, Erica, Boyd, and Jackson race off, his hands shoved deep in the pockets of his jeans. When he turns to look at Derek, his face is nowhere near as open and carefree as it had been with the Betas…but he doesn’t look particularly nervous or distrustful, either. He rocks back and forth on his heels a few times before slowly strolling towards Derek. 

“Okay, be honest,” he starts, and Derek freezes…but Stiles only tilts the corners of his mouth up in a shadow of the teasing grins he keeps shooting Scott and Erica. “That’s totally a game for, like, little werewolf kids, isn’t it? You just sent the puppies off to play hide and seek.” Stiles bounces on his toes a little, and Derek shrugs, neither confirming nor denying. “Careful there, buddy, can’t have anyone thinking you have a soft spot or anything.” The words aren’t said maliciously, but Derek has to stop himself from flinching. 

He doesn’t…it’s not that he wants the pack to think he doesn’t care about them. He’s just not ready to be as open about it as he could be. He doesn’t know if he’ll _ever_ be ready to try and be the sort of Alpha his mother was. If he’ll ever be ready to try and balance the strength that protects his pack with the kindness and affection he knows they all crave. His mother had been able to walk that line—with his father’s help. They had been _magnificent_ together, and he knows it’s not just the love of a child for his parents that colors his opinion of them. Every other pack within a hundred mile radius had respected the Hales. 

He clenches his teeth against the traitorous little whisper that suggests he might be able to be that kind of Alpha with Stiles at his side. He shrugs again, carefully blanking his expression. Stiles doesn’t seem bothered by his silence, just dropping down to sit on the stairs near him. 

Not beside him, or anything so companionable, but near him. Near enough that Derek doesn’t even have to inhale deeply to catch the smell of him—clean sweat and laundry detergent, the syrupy sweetness of too much soda and the tang of medication. The scents of Scott and the others are freshly layered on his clothes and skin, but beneath that, beneath even the scents of his father and his home, Derek can catch the barest breath of himself. Him and Stiles, tangled together the way they would be if last night had been real, if it had been something Derek could have again. 

He tries not to lean forward, to catch more of it, even as the guilt twists and stabs harder. 

Once, he reminds himself harshly. It was only the once, and he will not let himself slip like that again. 

Stiles leans back slightly, his eyes fixed on the tree line where the others had vanished. He rests his elbows on the stair behind him, close enough that the long sleeve of his shirt almost brushes Derek’s calf. He taps a mindless rhythm on the weathered, half-rotten wood, one leg bouncing up and down in a stuttering counterpoint. It should be annoying as hell, but Derek can’t find it in him to be irritated. 

After a few moments, though, Stiles sits up again, drawing his knees closer to his chest and wrapping his arms around them. He props his chin on his bent knees, still staring out into the tree line as though it holds some secret. “Listen,” he says softly, and Derek stiffens a little at the solemn tone of his voice. Stiles licks his lips nervously, rocking a little back and forth, as though he can’t stand to be still. “I just wanted to say thank you.” The words come out a little rushed, his voice going quiet on the end of the sentence. 

Derek narrows his eyes slightly, trying to figure out just what has brought this on. He shakes his head, blowing out a soft huff of air between his teeth. He doesn’t want to talk about this again. “I told you, it’s fine. And I meant what I said about the offer being on the—“

“No, no not that,” Stiles interrupts hurriedly. “I mean, yes, thank you for that but…just…this whole situation is just fucked up. And I hate it; I hate it so much. And Scott and the others—I know they’ve been _trying_ , but they’ve all—“ Stiles trails off, squeezing his eyes shut. And abruptly, Derek gets it. The spell. Stiles is talking about the spell. “They’ve all messed up, you know? At least a few times. Just little things, mostly, but I _hate_ it, and I’m so sick of being afraid like this. I’m sick of just waiting for my friends to mess up and make me do something stupid. Or dangerous. God, I thought Scott was gonna end up killing me those first few days.” Stiles draws in a shaky breath, and Derek’s hand twitches up almost of its own accord, reaching across to hover over the boy’s back uncertainly for a moment, before he draws it back and grips the edge of the stair he’s sitting on. 

If anything, Stiles draws himself into a tighter ball. “You’re the only one who hasn’t screwed up. You’ve been really careful every time you’ve talked to me, and you’ve never messed up _once_.” 

Derek’s whole body goes cold, as though someone has suddenly poured ice water through his veins, and the guilt _tears_ through him. 

Oblivious, Stiles turns his head slightly to look up at him, whiskey-brown eyes shining in the sunlight, and Derek feels like he’s going to be sick. “You’re the only one who’s been that careful. So, you know…I just wanted to say thanks,” Stiles finishes quietly. He turns back to his contemplation of the tree line, and Derek clenches his hands into fists, struggling to keep his breathing calm. 

_Liar_ , a part of him hisses in a voice that sounds so much like his mother, like his father, like his sister. _Liar, liar, liar_. 

He bites the inside of his cheek hard enough to draw blood, his heart pounding in his chest. The peace of the afternoon, the wonderful feeling of closeness and contentment melts away like ice under the summer sun, leaving only the shame of what he’d done. It closes around him like a vise, and it’s all he can do to keep breathing steadily. 

Later, he wonders if he still had a chance to turn back at this point. If he could have used this one moment of trust Stiles had gifted him with as a fresh starting point; if he could have changed anything. 

But then thinks of how even as the crushing, crushing waves of guilt had washed through him, he couldn’t stop staring at the line of Stiles’ nape, couldn’t help but remember the feel of the skin of his throat. He thinks of that, and knows that even if this had been a chance, there was no way he could have taken it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey,
> 
> So I put out a call on my other stories for some help doing beta-work...but while several lovely people are willing to help me with my lighter fare, the non-con elements of this story are making it difficult for me to find someone willing to beta for it. So I figured, eh, if you've made it this far in, you probably don't have a problem with the subject matter...and so maybe I should ask for help actually on the story :)
> 
> I'm really looking for someone who would be willing to hear out my plans for the rest of this story and help me iron out any details that don't work. There should only be another three, maybe four chapters (although, granted, my 17 chapter 'Last to Know' story was only supposed to be four chapters, lol!) and I'd really like to get this one wrapped up before I settle into writing on my Sterek Campaign auction 'fics. If you're interested, please shoot me a line at iamthesilver_gryphon@yahoo.com Thank you, loves!


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